» 


TOWARD  THE  GULF 


THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

NEW  YORK   •    BOSTON   •    CHICAGO    •   DALLAS 
ATLANTA    •   SAN  FRANCISCO 

MACMILLAN  &  CO.,  LIMITED 

LONDON    •  BOMBAY   -  CALCUTTA 
MELBOURNE 

THE  MACMILLAN  CO.  OF  CANADA,  LTD. 

TORONTO 


TOWARD  THE  GULF 


BY 

EDGAR  LEE  MASTERS 

AUTHOR  OF 

"  SPOON  RIVER  ANTHOLOGY,"  "  SONGS  AND  SATIRES,' 
'*  THE  GREAT  VALLEY  " 


fork 
THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

1918 

All  rights  reserved 


Copyright  IQI;,  By  Edgar  Lee  Masters;  International 
Magazine  Co.,  (Cosmopolitan  Magazine);  Marshall  Field  & 
Company;  Harriet  Monroe;  The  Independent. 

COPYRIGHT,  1918, 

By  THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 
Set  up  and  electrotyped.    Published  March,  1918 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

TOWARD  THE  GULF i 

THE  LAKE  BOATS 9 

CITIES  OF  THE  PLAIN 14 

EXCLUDED  MIDDLE 18 

SAMUEL  BUTLER,  ET  AL 34 

JOHNNY  APPLESEED 42 

THE  LOOM 46 

DIALOGUE  AT  PERKO'S 50 

SIR  GALAHAD 60 

ST.  DESERET 69 

HEAVEN  is  BUT  THE  HOUR 76 

VICTOR  RAFOLSKI  ON  ART 82 

THE  LANDSCAPE 91 

TO-MORROW  is  MY  BIRTHDAY 99 

SWEET  CLOVER 115 

SOMETHING  BEYOND  THE  HILL 117 

FRONT  THE  AGES  WITH  A  SMILE 119 

POOR  PIERROT 124 

MIRAGE  OF  THE  DESERT 125 

DAHLIAS 126 

THE  GRAND  RIVER  MARSHES 127 

DELILAH 130 

THE  WORLD-SAVER 139 

RECESSIONAI 150 

THE  AWAKENING 152 

IN  THE  GARDEN  AT  THE  DAWN  HOUR 153 

FRANCE 156 

BERTRAND  AND  GOURGAUD  TALK  OVER  OLD  TIMES 157 

DRAW  THE  SWORD,  O  REPUBLIC 168 

DEAR  OLD  DICK 171 

[v] 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

THE  ROOM  OF  MIRRORS 175 

THE  LETTER ij$ 

CANTICLE  OF  THE  RACE 183 

BLACK  EAGLE  RETURNS  TO  ST.  JOE 188 

MY  LIGHT  WITH  YOURS 196 

THE  BLIND 197 

"I  PAY  MY  DEBT  FOR  LAFAYETTE  AND  ROCHAMBEAU" 199 

CHRISTMAS  AT  INDIAN  POINT 201 

WIDOW  LA  RUE 205 

DR.  SCUDDER'S  CLINICAL  LECTURE 215 

FRIAR  YVES 235 

THE  EIGHTH  CRUSADE ." 243 

THE  BISHOP'S  DREAM  OF  THE  HOLY  SEPULCHRE 257 

NEANDERTHAL 268 

THE  END  OF  THE  SEARCH 276 

BOTANICAL  GARDENS 285 


VI 


TO  WILLIAM  MARION  REEDY 

It  would  have  been  fitting  had  I  dedicated  Spoon 
River  Anthology  to  you.  Considerations  of  an  inti 
mate  nature,  not  to  mention  a  literary  encouragement 
which  was  before  yours,  crowded  you  from  the  page. 
Yet  you  know  that  it  was  you  who  pressed  upon  my 
attention  in  June,  1909,  the  Greek  Anthology.  It  was 
from  contemplation  of  its  epitaphs  that  my  hand  un 
consciously  strayed  to  the  sketches  of  "Hod  Putt," 
"Serepta  The  Scold"  ("Serepta  Mason"  in  the  book), 
"Amanda  Barker"  ("Amanda"  in  the  book),  "Ollie 
McGee"  and  "The  Unknown,"  the  first  written  and 
the  first  printed  sketches  of  The  Spoon  River  Anthology. 
The  Mirror  of  May  29th,  1914,  is  their  record. 

I  take  one  of  the  epigrams  of  Meleager  with  its  sad 
revealment  and  touch  of  irony  and  turn  it  from  its 
prose  form  to  a  verse  form,  making  verses  according 
to  the  breath  pauses: 

"The  holy  night  and  thou,  O  Lamp,  we  took  as  wit 
ness  of  our  vows;  and  before  thee  we  swore,  he  that 
would  love  me  always  and  I  that  I  would  never  leave 
him.  We  swore,  and  thou  wert  witness  of  our  double 
promise.  But  now  he  says  that  our  vows  were  written 
on  the  running  waters.  And  thou,  O  Lamp,  thou 
seest  him  in  the  arms  of  another." 
[viil 


TO  WILLIAM  MARION  REEDY 

from  the  Mirror  some  of  the  poems.  Though  at  this 
time  the  schematic  effect  of  the  Anthology  could  not 
be  measured,  Edward  J.  Wheeler,  that  devoted  patron 
of  the  art  and  discriminating  critic  of  its  manifesta 
tions,  was  attracted,  I  venture  to  say,  by  the  substance 
of  "Griffy,  The  Cooper,"  for  that  is  one  of  the  poems 
from  the  Anthology  which  he  set  forth  in  his  column 
"The  Voice  of  Living  Poets"  in  the  issue  referred  to. 
Poetry,  A  Magazine  of  Ferse,  followed  in  its  issue  of 
October,  1914,  with  a  reprinting  from  the  Mirror. 
In  a  word,  the  Anthology  went  the  rounds  over  the 
country  before  it  was  issued  in  book  form.  And  a 
reception  was  thus  prepared  for  the  complete  work 
not  often  falling  to  the  lot  of  a  literary  production. 
I  must  not  omit  an  expression  of  my  gratitude  for 
the  very  high  praise  which  John  Cowper  Powys  be 
stowed  on  the  Anthology  just  before  it  appeared  in 
book  form  and  the  publicity  which  was  given  his  lec 
ture  by  the  New  York  Times.  Nathan  Haskell  Dole 
printed  an  article  in  the  Boston  Transcript  of  June 
30,  1915,  in  which  he  contrasted  the  work  with  the 
Greek  Anthology,  pointing  in  particular  to  certain 
epitaphs  by  Carphylides,  Kallaischros  and  Pollianos. 
1  The  critical  testimony  of  Miss  Harriet  Monroe  in 
her  editorial  comments  and  in  her  preface  to  "The 
New  Poetry"  has  greatly  strengthened  the  judgment 
of  to-day  against  a  reversal  at  the  hands  of  a  later 
criticism. 


TO  WILLIAM  MARION  REEDY 

This  response  to  the  Anthology  while  it  was  ap 
pearing  in  the  Mirror  and  afterwards  when  put  in  the 
book  was  to  nothing  so  much  as  to  the  substance.  It 
was  accepted  as  a  picture  of  our  life  in  America.  It  was 
interpreted  as  a  transcript  of  the  state  of  mind  of  men 
and  women  here  and  elsewhere.  You  called  it  a  Comedy 
Humaine  in  your  announcement  of  my  identity  as 
the  author  in  the  Mirror  of  November  20,  1914.  If 
the  epitaphic  form  gave  added  novelty  I  must  confess 
that  the  idea  was  suggested  to  me  by  the  Greek  An 
thology.  But  it  was  rather  because  of  the  Greek  An 
thology  than  from  it  that  I  evolved  the  less  harmonious 
epitaphs  with  which  Spoon  River  Anthology  was  com 
menced.  As  to  metrical  epitaphs  it  is  needless  to  say 
that  I  drew  upon  the  legitimate  materials  of  authentic 
English  versification.  Up  to  the  Spring  of  1914,  I 
had  never  allowed  a  Spring  to  pass  without  reading 
Homer;  and  I  feel  that  this  familiarity  had  its  influence 
both  as  to  form  and  spirit;  but  I  shall  not  take  the 
space  now  to  pursue  this  line  of  confessional. 

What  is  the  substance  of  which  I  have  spoken  if  it 
be  not  the  life  around  us  as  we  view  it  through  eyes 
whose  vision  lies  in  heredity,  mode  of  life,  understand 
ing  of  ourselves  and  of  our  place  and  time  ?  You  have 
lived  much.  As  a  critic  and  a  student  of  the  country 
no  one  understands  America  better  than  you  do.  As  a 
denizen  of  the  west,  but  as  a  surveyor  of  the  east  and 
west  you  have  brought  to  the  country's  interpretation 

[xi] 


TO  WILLIAM  MARION  REEDY 

a  knowledge  of  its  political  and  literary  life  as  well  as 
a  proficiency  in  the  history  of  other  lands  and  other 
times.  You  have  seen  and  watched  the  unfolding  of 
forces  that  sprang  up  after  the  Civil  War.  Those 
forces  mounted  in  the  eighties  and  exploded  in  free 
silver  in  1896.  They  began  to  hit  through  the  directed 
marksmanship  of  Theodore  Roosevelt  during  his  second 
term.  You  knew  at  first  hand  all  that  went  with  these 
forces  of  human  hope,  futile  or  valiant  endeavor,  ar 
ticulate  or  inarticulate  expression  of  the  new  birth. 
You  saw  and  lived,  but  in  greater  degree,  what  I  have 
seen  and  lived.  And  with  this  back-ground  you  in 
spired  and  instructed  me  in  my  analysis.  Standing 
by  you  confirmed  or  corrected  my  sculpturing  of  the 
clay  taken  out  of  the  soil  from  which  we  both  came. 
You  did  this  with  an  eye  familiar  with  the  secrets  of 
the  last  twenty  years,  familiar  also  with  the  relation 
of  those  years  to  the  time  which  preceded  and  bore 
them. 

So  it  is,  that  not  only  because  I  could  not  dedicate 
Spoon  River  to  you,  but  for  the  larger  reasons  indi 
cated,  am  I  impelled  to  do  you  whatever  honor  there 
may  be  in  taking  your  name  for  this  book.  By  this 
outline  confession,  sometime  perhaps  to  be  filled  in, 
do  I  make  known  what  your  relation  is  to  these  inter 
pretations  of  mine  resulting  from  a  spirit,  life,  thought, 
environment  which  have  similarly  come  to  us  and  have 
similarly  affected  us. 

[xii] 


TO  WILLIAM  MARION  REEDY 

I  call  this  book  "Toward  the  Gulf,"  a  title  import 
ing  a  continuation  of  the  attempts  of  Spoon  River  and 
The  Great  Valley  to  mirror  the  age  and  the  country 
in  which  we  live.  It  does  not  matter  which  one  of 
these  books  carries  your  name  and  makes  these  ac 
knowledgments;  so  far,  anyway,  as  the  opportunity  is 
concerned  for  expressing  my  appreciation  of  your 
friendship  and  the  great  esteem  and  affectionate  in 
terest  in  which  I  hold  you. 

EDGAR  LEE  MASTERS. 


[xiii 


TOWARD    THE    GULF 

Dedicated  to  Theodore  Roosevelt 

From  the  Cordilleran  Highlands, 

From  the  Height  of  Land 

Far  north. 

From  the  Lake  of  the  Woods, 

From  Rainy  Lake, 

From  Itasca's  springs. 

From  the  snow  and  the  ice 

Of  the  mountains, 

Breathed  on  by  the  sun, 

And  given  life, 

Awakened  by  kisses  of  fire, 

Moving,  gliding  as  brightest  hyaline 

Down  the  cliffs, 

Down  the  hills, 

Over  the  stones. 

Trickling  as  rills; 

Swiftly  running  as  mountain  brooks; 

Swirling  through  runnels  of  rock; 

Curving  in  sphered  silence 

Around  the  long  worn  walls  of  granite  gorges; 

Storming  through  chasms; 

And  flowing  for  miles  in  quiet  over  the  Titan  basin 

To  the  muddled  waters  of  the  mighty  river, 


TOWARD  THE  GULF 

Himself  obeying  the  call  of  the  gulf, 
And  the  unfathomed  urge  of  the  sea! 


Waters  of  mountain  peaks, 

Spirits  of  liberty 

Leaving  your  pure  retreats 

For  work  in  the  world. 

Soiling  your  crystal  springs 

With  the  waste  that  is  whirled  to  your  breast  as  you 

run, 

Until  you  are  foul  as  the  crawling  leviathan 
That  devours  you, 

And  uses  you  to  carry  waste  and  earth 
For  the  making  of  land  at  the  gulf, 
For  the  conquest  of  land  for  the  feet  of  men. 


De  Soto,  Marquette  and  La  Salle 

Planting  your  cross  in  vain, 

Gaining  neither  gold  nor  ivory, 

Nor  tribute 

For  France  or  Spain. 

Making  land  alone 

For  liberty! 

You  could  proclaim  in  the  name  of  the  cross 

The  dominion  of  kings  over  a  world  that  was  new. 

But  the  river  has  altered  its  course: 


TOWARD  THE  GULF 

There  are  fertile  fields 

For  a  thousand  miles  where  the  river  flowed  that  you 

knew. 

And  there  are  liberty  and  democracy 
For  thousands  of  miles 

Where  in  the  name  of  kings,  and  for  the  cross 
You  tramped  the  tangles  for  treasure. 


The  Falls  of  St.  Anthony  tumble  the  waters 

In  laughter  and  tumult  and  roaring  of  voices, 

Swirling,  dancing,  leaping,  foaming, 

Spirits  of  caverns,  of  canyons  and  gorges: 

Waters  tinctured  by  star-lights,  sweetened  by  breezes 

Blown  over  snows,  out  of  the  rosy  northlands, 

Through  forests  of  pine  and  hemlock, 

Whisperings  of  the  Pacific  grown  symphonic. 

Voices  of  freedom,  restless,  unconquered, 

Mad  with  divinity,  fearless  and  free: — 

Hunters  and  choppers,  warriors,  revelers, 

Laughers,  dancers,  fiddlers,  freemen, 

Climbing  the  crests  of  the  Alleghenies, 

Singing,  chopping,  hunting,  fighting 

Erupting  into  Kentucky  and  Tennessee, 

Into  Ohio,  Indiana,  Illinois, 

Sweeping  away  the  waste  of  the  Indians, 

As  the  river  carries  mud  for  the  making  of  land. 

And  taking  the  land  of  Illinois  from  kings 

[3] 


TOWARD  THE  GULF 

And  handing  its  allegiance  to  the  Republic. 

What  riflemen  with  Daniel  Boone  for  leader, 

And  conquerors  with  Clark  for  captain 

Plunge  down  like  melted  snows 

The  rocks  and  chasms  of  forbidden  mountains, 

And  make  more  land  for  freemen! 

Clear-eyed,  hard-muscled,  dauntless  hunters, 

Choppers  of  forests  and  tillers  of  fields 

Meet  at  last  in  a  field  of  snow-white  clover 

To  make  wise  laws  for  states, 

And  to  teach  their  sons  of  the  new  West 

That  suffrage  is  the  right  of  freemen. 

Until  the  lion  of  Tennessee, 

Who  crushes  king-craft  near  the  gulf> 

Where  La  Salle  proclaimed  the  crown, 

And  the  cross, 

Is  made  the  ruler  of  the  republic 

By  freeman  suffragans, 

And  winners  of  the  West! 


Father  of  Waters!     Ever  recurring  symbol  of  wider 

freedom, 

Even  to  the  ocean  girdled  earth, 
The  out-worn  rule  of  Florida  rots  your  domain. 
But  the  lion  of  Tennessee  asks:  Would  you  take  from 

Spain 
The  land  she  has  lost  but  in  name? 

[4! 


TOWARD  THE  GULF 

It  shall  be  done  in  a  month  if  you  loose  my  sword. 

It  was  done  as  he  said. 

And  the  sick  and  drunken  power  of  Spain  that  clung, 

And  sucked  at  the  life  of  Chile,  Peru,  Argentina, 

Loosened  under  the  blows  of  San  Martin  and  Bolivar, 

Breathing  the  lightning  thrown  by  Napoleon  the  Great 

On  the  thrones  of  Europe. 

Father  of  Waters!  'twas  you  who  made  us  say: 

No  kings  this  side  of  the  earth  forever! 

One-half  of  the  earth  shall  be  free 

By  our  word  and  the  might  that  is  back  of  our  word! 


The  falls  of  St.  Anthony  tumble  the  waters 

In  laughter  and  tumult  and  roaring  of  voices! 

And  the  river  moves  in  its  winding  channel  toward  the 

gulf, 

Over  the  breast  of  De  Soto, 
By  the  swamp  grave  of  La  Salle! 
The  old  days  sleep,  the  lion  of  Tennessee  sleeps 
With  Daniel  Boone  and  the  hunters, 
The  rifle  men,  the  revelers, 
The  laughers  and  dancers  and  choppers 
Who  climbed  the  crests  of  the  Alleghenies, 
And  poured  themselves  into  Tennessee,  Ohio, 
Kentucky,  Illinois,  the  bountiful  West. 
But  the  river  never  sleeps,  the  river  flows  forever, 
Making  land  forever,  reclaiming  the  wastes  of  the  sea. 

[5] 


TOWARD  THE  GULF 

And  the  race  never  sleeps,  the  race  moves  on  forever. 
And  wars  must  come,  as  the  waters  must  sweep  away 
Drift-wood,  dead  wood,  choking  the  strength  of  the 

river — 
For  Liberty  never  sleeps! 

***** 

The  lion  of  Tennessee  sleeps! 
And  over  the  graves  of  the  hunters  and  choppers 
The  tramp  of  troops  is  heard! 
There  is  war  again, 
O,  Father  of  Waters! 
There  is  war,  O,  symbol  of  freedom! 
They  have  chained  your  giant  strength  for  the  cause 
Of  trade  in  men. 

But  a  man  of  the  West,  a  denizen  of  your  shore, 
Wholly  American, 

Compact,  clear-eyed,  nerved  like  a  hunter, 
Who  knew  no  faster  beat  of  the  heart, 
Except  in  charity,  forgiveness,  peace; 
Generous,  plain,  democratic, 
Scarcely  appraising  himself  at  full, 
A  spiritual  rifleman  and  chopper, 
Of  the  breed  of  Daniel  Boone— 
This  man,  your  child,  O,  Father  of  Waters, 
Waked  from  the  winter  sleep  of  a  useless  day 
By  the  rising  sun  of  a  Freedom  bright  and  strong, 
Slipped   like   the   loosened    snows   of  your   mountain 
streams 

[6] 


TOWARD  THE  GULF 

Into  a  channel  of  fate  as  sure  as  your  own — 

A  fate  which  said :  till  the  thing  be  done 

Turn  not  back  nor  stop. 

Ulysses  of  the  great  Atlantis, 

Wholly  American, 

Patient,  silent,  tireless,  watchful,  undismayed 

Grant  at  Fort  Donelson,  Grant  at  Vicksburg, 

Leading  the  sons  of  choppers  and  riflemen, 

Pushing  on  as  the  hunters  and  farmers 

Poured  from  the  mountains  into  the  West, 

Freed  you,  Father  of  Waters, 

To  flow  to  the  Gulf  and  be  one 

With  the  earth-engirdled  tides  of  time. 

And  gave  us  states  made  ready  for  the  hands 

Wholly  American: 

Hunters,  choppers,  tillers,  fighters 

For  epochs  vast  and  new 

In  Truth,  in  Liberty, 

Posters  from  land  to  land  and  sea  to  sea 

Till  all  the  earth  be  free! 


Ulysses  of  the  great  Atlantis, 

Dream  not  of  disaster, 

Sleep  the  sleep  of  the  brave 

In  your  couch  afar  from  the  Father  of  Waters! 

A  new  Ulysses  arises, 

Who  turns  not  back,  nor  stops 


TOWARD  THE  GULF 

Till  the  thing  is  done. 

He  cuts  with  one  stroke  of  the  sword 

The  stubborn  neck  that  keeps  the  Gulf 

And  the  Caribbean 

From  the  luring  Pacific. 

Roosevelt  the  hunter,  the  pioneer, 

Wholly  American, 

Winner  of  greater  wests 

Till  all  the  earth  be  free! 


And  forever  as  long  as  the  river  flows  toward  the  Gulf 
Ulysses  reincarnate  shall  come 
To  guard  our  places  of  sleep, 

Till  East  and  West  shall  be  one  in  the  west  of  heaven 
and  earth! 


[8 


THE  LAKE  BOATS 

In  an  old  print 

I  see  a  thicket  of  masts  on  the  river. 

But  in  the  prints  to  be 

There  will  be  lake  boats, 

With  port  holes,  funnels,  rows  of  decks, 

Huddled  like  swans  by  the  docks, 

Under  the  shadows  of  cliffs  of  brick. 

And  who  will  know  from  the  prints  to  be, 

When  the  Albatross  and  the  Golden  Eagle, 

The  flying  craft  which  shall  carry  the  vision 

Of  impatient  lovers  wounded  by  Spring 

To  the  shaded  rivers  of  Michigan, 

That  it  was  the  Missouri,  the  Iowa, 

And  the  City  of  Benton  Harbor 

Which  lay  huddled  like  swans  by  the  docks  ? 

You  are  not  Lake  Leman, 

Walled  in  by  Mt.  Blanc. 

One  sees  the  whole  world  round  you, 

And  beyond  you,  Lake  Michigan. 

And  when  the  melodious  winds  of  March 

Wrinkle  you  and  drive  on  the  shore 

The  serpent  rifts  of  sand  and  snow, 

And  sway  the  giant  limbs  of  oaks, 

Longing  to  bud, 

[9] 


TOWARD  THE  GULF 

The  boats  put  forth  for  the  ports  that  began  to  stir, 

With  the  creak  of  reels  unwinding  the  nets, 

And  the  ring  of  the  caulking  wedge. 

But  in  the  June  days — 

The  Alabama  ploughs  through  liquid  tons 

Of  sapphire  waves. 

She  sinks  from  hills  to  valleys  of  water, 

And  rises  again, 

Like  a  swimming  gull! 

I  wish  a  hundred  years  to  come,  and  forever 

All  lovers  could  know  the  rapture 

Of  the  lake  boats  sailing  the  first  Spring  days 

To  coverts  of  hepatica, 

With  the  whole  world  sphering  round  you, 

And  the  whole  of  the  sky  beyond  you. 

I  knew  the  captain  of  the  City  of  Grand  Rapids. 

He  had  sailed  the  seas  as  a  boy. 

And  he  stood  on  deck  against  the  railing 

Puffing  a  cigar, 

Showing  in  his  eyes  the  cinema  flash  of  the  sun  on  the 

waves. 

It  was  June  and  life  was  easy.  .  .  . 
One  could  lie  on  deck  and  sleep, 
Or  sit  in  the  sun  and  dream. 
People  were  walking  the  decks  and  talking, 
Children  were  singing. 
And  down  on  the  purser's  deck 
[10] 


THE  LAKE  BOATS 

A  man  was  dancing  by  himself, 

Whirling  around  like  a  dervish. 

And  this  captain  said  to  me: 

"No  life  is  better  than  this. 

I  could  live  forever, 

And  do  nothing  but  run  this  boat 

From  the  dock  at  Chicago  to  the  dock  at  Holland 

And  back  again." 

One  time  I  went  to  Grand  Haven 

On  the  Alabama  with  Charley  Shippey. 

It  was  dawn,  but  white  dawn  only, 

Under  the  reign  of  Leucothea, 

As  we  volplaned,  so  it  seemed,  from  the  lake 

Past  the  lighthouse  into  the  river. 

And  afterward  laughing  and  talking 

Hurried  to  Van  Dreezer's  restaurant 

For  breakfast. 

(Charley  knew  him  and  talked  of  things 

Unknown  to  me  as  he  cooked  the  breakfast.) 

Then  we  fished  the  mile's  length  of  the  pier 

In  a  gale  full  of  warmth  and  moisture 

Which  blew  the  gulls  about  like  confetti, 

And  flapped  like  a  flag  the  linen  duster 

Of  a  fisherman  who  paced  the  pier — 

(Charley  called  him  Rip  Van  Winkle). 

The  only  thing  that  could  be  better 

Than  this  day  on  the  pier 


TOWARD  THE  GULF 

Would  be  its  counterpart  in  heaven, 

As  Swedenborg  would  say — 

Charley  is  fishing  somewhere  now,  I  think. 

There  is  a  grove  of  oaks  on  a  bluff  by  the  river 

At  Berrien  Springs. 

There  is  a  cottage  that  eyes  the  lake 

Between  pines  and  silver  birches 

At  South  Haven. 

There  is  the  inviolable  wonder  of  wooded  shore 

Curving  for  miles  at  Saugatuck. 

And  at  Holland  a  beach  like  Scheveningen's. 

And  at  Charlevoix  the  sudden  quaintness 

Of  an  old-world  place  by  the  sea. 

There  are  the  hills  around  Elk  Lake 

Where  the  blue  of  the  sky  is  so  still  and  clear 

It  seems  it  was  rubbed  above  them 

By  the  swipe  of  a  giant  thumb. 

And  beyond  these  the  little  Traverse  Bay 

Where  the  roar  of  the  breeze  goes  round 

Like  a  roulette  ball  in  the  groove  of  the  wheel, 

Circling  the  bay, 

And    beyond    these    Mackinac    and    the    Cheneaux 

Islands — 
And  beyond  these  a  great  mystery! — 

Neither  ice  floes,  nor  winter's  palsy 
Stays  the  tide  in  the  river. 

[12] 


THE  LAKE  BOATS 

And  under  the  shadows  of  cliffs  of  brick 

The  lake  boats 

Huddled  like  swans 

Turn  and  sigh  like  sleepers — 

They  are  longing  for  the  Spring! 


[13 


CITIES  OF  THE  PLAIN 

Where  are  the  cabalists,  the  insidious  committees, 

The  panders  who  betray  the  idiot  cities 

For  miles  and  miles  toward  the  prairie  sprawled, 

Ignorant,  soul-less,  rich, 

Smothered  in  fumes  of  pitch  ? 


Rooms  of  mahogany  in  tall  sky  scrapers 

See  the  unfolding  and  the  folding  up 

Of  ring-clipped  papers, 

And  letters  which  keep  drugged  the  public  cup. 

The  walls  hear  whispers  and  the  semi-tones 

Of  voices  in  the  corner,  over  telephones 

Muffled    by    Persian    padding,    gemmed    with    brass 

spittoons. 

Butts  of  cigars  are  on  the  glass  topped  table, 
And  through  the  smoke,  gracing  the  furtive  Babel, 
The  bishop's  picture  blesses  the  picaroons, 
Who  start  or  stop  the  life  of  millions  moving 
Unconscious  of  obedience,  the  plastic 
Yielders  to  satanic  and  dynastic 
Hands  of  reproaching  and  approving. 


CITIES  OF  THE  PLAIN 

Here  come  knights  armed, 

But  with  their  arms  concealed, 

And  rubber  heeled. 

Here  priests  and  wavering  want  are  charmed. 

And  shadows  fall  here  like  the  shark's 

In  messages  received  or  sent. 

Signals  are  flying  from  the  battlement. 

And  every  president 

Of  rail,  gas,  coal  and  oil,  the  parks, 

The  receipt  of  custom  knows,  without  a  look, 

Their  meaning  as  the  code  is  in  no  book. 

The  treasonous  cracksmen  of  the  city's  wealth 

Watch  for  the  flags  of  stealth ! 


Acres  of  coal  lie  fenced  along  the  tracks. 

Tracks  ribbon  the  streets,  and  beneath  the  streets 

Wires  for  voices,  fire,  thwart  the  plebiscites, 

And  choke  the  counsels  and  symposiacs 

Of  dreamers  who  have  pity  for  the  backs 

That  bear  and  bleed. 

All  things  are  theirs:  tracks,  wires,  streets  and  coal, 

The  church's  creed, 

The  city's  soul, 

The  city's  sea  girt  loveliness, 

The  merciless  and  meretricious  press. 


TOWARD  THE  GULF 

Far  up  in  a  watch-tower,  where  the  news  is  printed, 
Gray  faces  and  bright  eyes,  weary  and  cynical 
Discuss  fresh  wonders  of  the  old  cabal. 
But  nothing  of  its  work  in  type  is  hinted: 
Taxes  are  high !    The  mentors  of  the  town 
Must  keep  their  taxes  down 
On  buildings,  presses,  stocks 
In  gas,  oil,  coal  and  docks. 
The  mahogany  rooms  conceal  a  spider  man 
Who  holds  the  taxing  bodies  through  the  church, 
And  knights  with  arms  concealed.    The  mentors  search 
The  spider  man,  the  master  publican, 
And  for  his  friendship  silence  keep, 
Letting  him  herd  the  populace  like  sheep 
For  self  and  for  the  insatiable  desires 
Of  coal  and  tracks  and  wires, 
Pick  judges,  legislators, 
And  tax-gatherers. 

Or  name  his  favorites,  whom  they  name: 
The  slick  and  sinistral, 
Servitors  of  the  cabal, 

For  praise  which  seems  the  equivalent  of  fame: 
Giving  to  the  delicate  handed  crackers 
Of  priceless  safes,  the  spiritual  slackers, 
The  flash  and  thunder  of  front  pages! 
And  the  gulled  millions  stare  and  fling  their  wages 
,  Where  they  are  bidden,  helpless  and  emasculate. 
And  the  unilluminate, 

[16] 


CITIES  OF  THE  PLAIN 

Whose  brows  are  brass, 

Who  weep  on  every  Sabbath  day 

For  Jesus  riding  on  an  ass, 

Scarce  know  the  ass  is  they, 

Now  ridden  by  his  effigy, 

The  publican  with  Jesus'  painted  mask, 

Along  a  way  where  fumes  of  odorless  gas 

First  spur  then  fell  them  from  the  task. 


Through  the  parade  runs  swift  the  psychic  cackle 
Like  thorns  beneath  a  boiling  pot  that  crackle. 
And  the  angels  say  to  Yahveh  looking  down 
From  the  alabaster  railing,  on  the  town, 
O,  cackle,  cackle,  cackle,  crack  and  crack 
We  wish  we  had  our  little  Sodom  back! 


EXCLUDED  MIDDLE 

Out  of  the  mercury  shimmer  of  glass 

Over  these  daguerreotypes 

The  balloon-like  spread  of  a  skirt  of  silk  emerges 

With  its  little  figure  of  flowers. 

And  the  enameled  glair  of  parted  hair 

Lies  over  the  oval  brow, 

From  under  which  eyes  of  fiery  blackness 

Look  through  you. 

And  the  only  repose  of  spirit  shown 

Is  in  the  hands 

Lying  loosely  one  in  the  other, 

Lightly  clasped  somewhat  below  the  breast.  .  .  . 

And  in  the  companion  folder  of  this  case 

Of  gutta  percha 

Is  the  shape  of  a  man. 

His  brow  is  oval  too,  but  broader. 

His  nose  is  long,  but  thick  at  the  tip. 

His  eyes  are  blue 

Wherein  faith  burns  her  signal  lights, 

And  flashes  her  convictions. 

His  mouth  is  tense,  almost  a  slit. 

And  his  face  is  a  massive  Calvinism 

Resting  on  a  stock  tie. 

[18] 


EXCLUDED  MIDDLE 

They  were  married,  you  see. 

The  clasp  on  this  gutta  percha  case 

Locks  them  together. 

They  were  locked  together  in  life. 

And  a  hasp  of  brass 

Keeps  their  shadows  face  to  face  in  the  case 

Which  has  been  handed  down — 

(The  pictures  of  noble  ancestors, 

Showing  what  strains  of  gentle  blood 

Flow  in  the  third  generation)— 

From  Massachusetts  to  Illinois.  .  .  . 

Long  ago  it  was  over  for  them, 

Massachusetts  has  done  its  part, 

She  raised  the  seed 

And  a  wind  blew  it  over  to  Illinois 

Where  it  has  mixed,  multiplied,  mutated 

Until  one  soul  comes  forth: 

But  a  soul  all  striped  and  streaked, 

And  a  soul  self-crossed  and  self-opposed, 

As  it  were  a  tree  which  on  one  branch 

Bears  northern  spies, 

And  on  another  thorn  apples.  .  .  . 

Come  Weissmann,  Von  Baer  and  Schleiden, 
And  you  BufFon  and  De  Vries, 
Come  with  your  secrets  of  sea  shore  asters 
Night-shade,  henbanes,  gloxinias, 

[191 


TOWARD  THE  GULF 

Veronicas,  snap-dragons,  Danebrog, 

And  show  us  how  they  cross  and  change, 

And  become  hybrids. 

And  show  us  what  heredity  is, 

And  how  it  works. 

For  the  secret  of  these  human  beings 

Locked  in  this  gutta  percha  case 

Is  the  secret  of  Mephistos  and  red  Campions. 

Let  us  lay  out  the  facts  as  far  as  we  can. 

Her  eyes  were  black, 

His  eyes  were  blue. 

She  saw  through  shadows,  walls  and  doors, 

She  knew  life  and  hungered  for  more. 

But  he  lived  in  the  mists,  and  climbed  to  high  places 

To  feel  clouds  about  his  face,  and  get  the  lights 

Of  supernal  sun-sets. 

She  was  reason,  and  he  was  faith. 

She  had  an  illumination,  but  of  the  intellect. 

And  he  had  an  illumination  but  of  the  soul. 

And  she  saw  God  as  merciless  law, 

And  he  knew  God  as  divine  love. 

And  she  was  a  man,  and  he  in  part  was  a  woman. 

He  stood  in  a  pulpit  and  preached  the  Christ, 

And  the  remission  of  sins  by  blood, 

And  the  literal  fall  of  man  through  Adam, 

And  the  mystical  and  actual  salvation  of  man 

Through  the  coming  of  Christ. 

[20] 


EXCLUDED  MIDDLE 

And  she  sat  in  a  pew  shading  her  great  eyes 

To  hide  her  scorn  for  it  all. 

She  was  crucified, 

And  raged  to  the  last  like  the  impenitent  thief 

Against  the  fate  which  wasted  and  trampled  down 

Her  wisdom,  sagacity,  versatile  skill, 

Which  would  have  piled  up  gold  or  honors 

For  a  mate  who  knew  that  life  is  growth, 

And  health,  and  the  satisfaction  of  wants, 

And  place  and  reputation  and  mansion  houses, 

And  mahogany  and  silver, 

And  beautiful  living. 

She  hated  him,  and  hence  she  pitied  him. 

She  was  like  the  gardener  with  great  pruners 

Deciding  to  clip,  sometimes  not  clipping 

Just  for  the  dread. 

She  had  married  him — but  why? 

Some  inscrutable  air 

Wafted  his  pollen  to  her  across  a  wide  garden — 

Some  power  had  crossed  them. 

And  here  is  the  secret  I  think: 

(As  we  would  say  here  is  electricity) 

It  is  the  vibration  inhering  in  sex 

That  produces  devils  or  angels, 

And  it  is  the  sex  reaction  in  men  and  women 

That  brings  forth  devils  or  angels, 

And  starts  in  them  the  germs  of  powers  or  passions, 

Becoming  loves,  ferocities,  gifts  and  weaknesses, 

[21] 


TOWARD  THE  GULF 

Till  the  stock  dies  out. 

So  now  for  their  hybrid  children: — 

She  gave  birth  to  four  daughters  and  one  son. 

But  first  what  have  we  for  the  composition  of  these 

daughters? 

Reason  opposed  and  becoming  keener  therefor. 
Faith  mocked  and  drawing  its  mantel  closer. 
Love  thwarted  and  becoming  acid. 
Hatred  mounting  too  high  and  thinning  into  pity. 
Hunger  for  life  unappeased  and  becoming  a  stream 

under-ground 

Where  only  blind  things  swim. 

God  year  by  year  removing  himself  to  remoter  thrones 
Of  inexorable  law. 

God  coming  closer  even  while  disease 
And  total  blindness  came  between  him  and  God 
And  defeated  the  mercy  of  God. 
And  a  love  and  a  trust  growing  deeper  in  him 
As  she  in  great  thirst,  hanging  on  the  cross, 
Mocked  his  crucifixion, 

And  talked  philosophy  between  the  spasms  of  pain, 
Till  at  last  she  is  all  satirist, 
And  he  is  all  saint. 

And  all  the  children  were  raised 

After  the  strictest  fashion  in  New  England, 

And  made  to  join  the  church, 

[22] 


EXCLUDED  MIDDLE 

And  attend  its  services. 
And  these  were  the  children: 

Janet  was  a  religious  fanatic  and  a  virago, 

She  debated  religion  with  her  husband  for  ten  years, 

Then  he  refused  to  talk,  and  for  twenty  years 

Scarcely  spoke  to  her. 

She  died  a  convert  to  Catholicism. 

They  had  two  children: 

The  boy  became  a  forgerer 

Of  notorious  skill. 

The  daughter  married,  but  was  barren. 

Miranda  married  a  rich  man 

And  spent  his  money  so  fast  that  he  failed. 

She  lashed  him  with  a  scorpion  tongue 

And  made  him  believe  at  last 

With  her  incessant  reasonings 

That  he  was  a  fool,  and  so  had  failed. 

In  middle  life  he  started  over  again, 

But  became  tangled  in  a  law-suit. 

Because  of  these  things  he  killed  himself. 

Louise  was  a  nymphomaniac. 
She  was  married  twice. 

Both  husbands  fled  from  her  insatiable  embraces. 
At  thirty-two  she  became  a  woman  on   a  telephone 
list, 

[23] 


TOWARD  THE  GULF 

Subject  to  be  called, 

And  for  two  years  ran  through  a  daily  orgy  of  sex, 

When  blindness  came  on  her,  as  it  came  on  her  father 

before  her, 

And  she  became  a  Christian  Scientist, 
And  led  an  exemplary  life. 

Deborah  was  a  Puritan  of  Puritans, 
Her  list  of  unmentionable  things 
Tabooed  all  the  secrets  of  creation, 
Leaving  politics,  religion,  and  human  faults, 
And  the  mistakes  most  people  make, 
And  the  natural  depravity  of  man, 
And  his  freedom  to  redeem  himself  if  he  chooses, 
As  the  only  subjects  of  conversation. 
As  a  twister  of  words  and  meanings, 
And  a  skilled  welder  of  fallacies, 
And  a  swift  emerger  from  ineluctable  traps  of  logic, 
And  a  wit  with  an  adder's  tongue, 
And  a  laugher, 

And  an  unafraid  facer  of  enemies, 
Oppositions,  hatreds, 
She  never  knew  her  equal. 
She  was  at  once  very  cruel,  and  very  tender, 
Very  selfish  and  very  generous 
Very  little  and  very  magnanimous. 
Scrupulous  as  to  the  truth,  and  utterly  disregardless 
of  the  truth. 

[24] 


EXCLUDED  MIDDLE 

Of  the  keenest  intuitions,  yet  gullible, 

Easily  used  at  times,  of  erratic  judgment, 

Analytic  but  pursuing  with  incredible  swiftness 

The  falsest  trails  to  her  own  undoing — 

All  in  all  the  "strangest  mixture  of  colors  and  scent 

Derived  from  father  and  mother> 

But  mixed  by  whom,  and  how,  and  why? 

Now  for  the  son  named  Herman,  rebel  soul. 

His  brow  was  like  a  loaf  of  bread,  his  eyes 

Turned  from  his  father's  blue  to  gray,  his  nose 

Was  like  his  mother's,  skin  was  dark  like  hers. 

His  shapely  body,  hands  and  feet  belonged 

To  some  patrician  face,  not  to  Marat's. 

And  his  was  like  Marat's,  fanatical, 

Materialistic,  fierce,  as  it  might  guide 

A  reptile's  crawl,  but  yet  he  crawled  to  peaks 

Loving  the  hues  of  mists,  but  not  the  mists 

His  father  loved.    And  being  a  rebel  soul 

He  thought  the  world  all  wrong.    A  nothingness 

Moving  as  malice  marred  the  life  of  man. 

'Twas  man's  great  work  to  fight  this  Giant  Fraud, 

And  all  who  praise  and  serve  Him.    'Tis  for  man 

To  free  the  world  from  error,  suffer,  die 

For  liberty  of  thought.    You  see  his  mother 

Is  in  possession  of  one  part  of  him, 

Or  all  of  him  for  some  time. 

[251 


TOWARD  THE  GULF 

So  he  lives 

Nursing  the  dream  (like  father  he's  a  dreamer) 
That  genius  fires  him.    All  the  while  a  gift 
For  analytics  stored  behind  that  brow, 
That  bulges  like  a  loaf  of  bread,  is  all 
Of  which  he  well  may  boast  above  the  man 
He  hates  as  but  a  slave  of  faith  and  fear. 
He  feeds  luxurious  doubt  with  Omar  Khyam, 
But  for  long  years  neglects  the  jug  of  wine. 
And  as  for  "thou"  he  does  not  wake  for  years, 
Is  a  pure  maiden  when  he  weds,  the  grains 
Run  counter  in  him,  end  in  knots  at  times. 
He  takes  from  father  certain  tastes  and  traits, 
From  mother  certain  others,  one  can  see 
His  mother's  sex  re-actions  to  his  father, 
Not  passed  to  him  to  make  him  celibate, 
But  holding  back  in  sleeping  passions  which 
Burst  over  bounds  at  last  in  lust,  not  love. 
Not  love  since  that  great  engine  in  the  brow 
Tears  off  the  irised  wings  of  love  and  bares 
The  poor  worm's  body  where  the  wings  had  been: 
What  is  it  but  desire?    Such  stuff  in  rhyme 
In  music  over  what  is  but  desire, 
And  ends  when  that  is  satisfied! 

He's  a  crank. 

And  follows  all  the  psychic  thrills  which  run 
To  cackles  o'er  the  world.    It's  Looking  Backward, 

[26! 


EXCLUDED  MIDDLE 

Or  Robert  Elsmere,  Spencer's  Social  Statics, 

It's  socialism,  Anarchism,  Peace, 

It's  non-resistance  with  a  swelling  heart, 

As  who  should  say  how  truer  to  the  faith 

Of  Jesus  am  I,  without  hope  or  faith, 

Than  churchmen.    He's  a  prohibitionist, 

The  poor's  protagonist,  the  knight  at  arms 

Of  fallen  women,  yelling  at  the  rich 

Whose  wicked  greed  makes  all  the  prostitutes — 

No  prostitutes  without  the  wicked  rich ! 

But  as  he  ages,  as  the  bitter  days 

Approach  with  perorations:  O  ye  vipers, 

The  engine  in  him  changes  all  the  world, 

Reverses  all  the  wheels  of  thought  behind. 

For  Nietzsche  comes,  and  makes  him  superman. 

He  dumps  the  truth  of  Jesus  over — there 

It  lies  with  his  youth's  textual  skepticism, 

And  laughter  at  the  supernatural. 

Now  what's  the  motivating  principle 

Of  such  a  mind  ?    In  youth  he  sought  for  rules 

Wherewith  to  trail  and  capture  truths.    He  found  it 

In  James  McCosh's  Logic,  it  was  this: 

Lex  Exclusi  Tertii  aut  Medii, 

Law  of  Excluded  Middle  speaking  plain: 

A  thing  is  true,  or  not  true,  never  a  third 

Hypothesis,  so  God  is  or  is  not. 

That's  very  good  to  start  with,  how  to  end, 

[27] 


TOWARD  THE  GULF 

And  how  to  know  which  of  the  two  is  false — 
He  hunted  out  the  false,  as  mother  did — 
Requires  a  tool.    He  found  it  in  this  book, 
Reductio  ad  absurdum;  let  us  see 
Excluded  middle  use  reductio. 
God  is  or  God  is  not,  but  then  what  God  ? 
Excluded  Middle  never  sought  a  God 
To  suffer  demolition  at  his  hands 
Except  the  God  of  Illinois,  the  God 
Grown  but  a  little  with  his  followers 
Since  Moses  lived  and  Peter  fished.    So  now 
God  is  or  God  is  not.    Let  us  assume 
God  is  and  use  reductio  ad  absurdum, 
Taking  away  the  rotten  props,  the  posts 
That  do  not  fit  or  hold,  and  let  Him  fall. 
For  if  he  falls,  the  other  postulate 
That  God  is  not  is  demonstrated.    See 
A  universe  of  truth  pass  on  the  way 
Cleared  by  Excluded  Middle  through  the  stuff 
Of  thought  and  visible  things,  a  way  that  lets 
A  greater  God  escape,  uncaught  by  all 
The  nippers  of  reductio  ad  absurdum. 
But  to  resume  his  argument  was  this: 
God  is  or  God  is  not,  but  if  God  is 
Why  pestilence  and  war,  earthquake  and  famine? 
He  either  wills  them,  or  cannot  prevent  them, 
But  if  he  wills  them  God  is  evil,  if 
He  can't  prevent  them,  he  is  limited. 
[28] 


EXCLUDED  MIDDLE 

But  God,  you  say,  is  good,  omnipotent, 

And  here  I  prove  Him  evil,  or  too  weak 

To  stay  the  evil.    Having  shown  your  God 

Lacking  in  what  makes  God,  the  proposition 

Which  I  oppose  to  this,  that  God  is  not 

Stands  proven.    For  as  evil  is  most  clear 

In  sickness,  pain  and  death,  it  cannot  be 

There  is  a  Power  with  strength  to  overcome  them, 

Yet  suffers  them  to  be. 

And  so  this  man 

Went  through  the  years  of  life,  and  stripped  the  fields 
Of  beauty  and  of  thought  with  mandibles 
Insatiable  as  the  locust's,  which  devours 
A  season's  care  and  labor  in  an  hour. 
He  stripped  these  fields  and  ate  them,  but  they  made 
No  meat  or  fat  for  him.    And  so  he  lived 
On  his  own  thought,  as  starving  men  may  live 
On  stored  up  fat.    And  so  in  time  he  starved. 
The  thought  in  him  no  longer  fed  his  life, 
And  he  had  withered  up  the  outer  world 
Of  man  and  nature,  stripped  it  to  the  bone, 
Nothing  but  skull  and  cross-bones  greeted  him 
Wherever  he  turned — the  world  became  a  bottle 
Filled  with  a  bitter  essence  he  could  drink 
From  long  accustomed  doses — labeled  poison 
And  marked  with  skull  and  cross-bones.      Could   he 
laugh 

[29] 


TOWARD  THE  GULF 

As  mother  laughed?    No  more!    He  tried  to  find 
The  mother's  laugh  and  secret  for  the  laugh 
Which  kept  her  to  the  end— but  did  she  laugh  ? 
Or  if  she  laughed,  was  it  so  hollow,  forced 
As  all  his  laughter  now  was.    He  had  proved 
Too  much  for  laughter.    Nothing  but  himself 
Remained  to  keep  himself,  he  lived  alone 
Upon  his  stored  up  fat,  now  daily  growing 
To  dangerous  thinness. 

So  with  love  of  woman. 

He  had  found  "thou"  the  jug  of  wine  as  well, 
"Thou"  "thou"  had  come  and  gone  too  many  times. 
For  what  is  sex  but  touch  of  flesh,  the  hand 
Is  flesh  and  hands  may  touch,  if  so,  the  loins— 
Reductio  ad  absurdum,  O  you  fools, 
Who  see  a  wrong  in  touch  of  loins,  no  wrong 
In  clasp  of  hands.    And  so  again,  again 
With  his  own  tools  of  thought  he  bruised  his  hands 
Until  they  grew  too  callous  to  perceive 
When  they  were  touched. 

So  by  analysis 

He  turned  on  everything  he  once  believed. 
Let's  make  an  end! 

Men  thought  Excluded  Middle 
Was  born  for  great  things.    Why  that  bulging  brow 
And  analytic  keen  if  not  for  greatness  ? 

[30] 


EXCUDLED  MIDDLE 

In  thqse  old  days  they  thought  so  when  he  fought 

For  lofty  things,  a  youthful  radical 

Come  here  to  change  the  world!    But  now  at  last 

He  lectures  in  back  halls  to  youths  who  are 

What  he  was  in  his  youth,  to  acid  souls 

Who  must  have  bitterness,  can  take  enough 

To  kill  a  healthy  soul,  as  fiends  for  dope 

Must  have  enough  to  kill  a  body  clean. 

And  so  upon  a  night  Excluded  Middle 

Is  lecturing  to  prove  that  life  is  evil, 

Not  worth  the  living — when  his  auditors 

Behold  him  pale  and  sway  and  take  his  seat, 

And  later  quit  the  hall,  the  lecture  left 

Half  finished. 

This  had  happened  in  a  twinkling: 

He  had  made  life  a  punching  bag,  with  fists, 

Excluded  Middle  and  Reductio, 

Had  whacked  it  back  and  forth.    But  just  as  often 

As  he  had  struck  it  with  an  argument 

That  it  is  not  worth  living,  snap,  the  bag 

Would  fly  back  for  another  punch.    For  life 

Just  like  a  punching  bag  will  stand  your  whacks 

Of  hatred  and  denial,  let  you  punch 

Almost  at  will.    But  sometime,  like  the  bag, 

The  strap  gives  way,  the  bag  flies  up  and  falls 

And  lies  upon  the  floor,  youVe  knocked  it  out. 

And  this  is  what  Excluded  Middle  does 

[31] 


TOWARD  THE  GULF 

This  night,  the  strap  breaks  with  his  blows.    He  proves 
His  strength,  his  case  and  for  the  first  he  sees 
Life  is  not  worth  the  living.    Life  gives  up, 
Resists  no  more,  flys  back  no  more  to  him, 
But  hits  the  ceiling,  snap  the  strap  gives  way! 
The  bag  falls  to  the  floor,  and  lies  there  still— 
Who  now  shall  pick  it  up,  re-fasten  it? 
And  so  his  color  fades,  it  well  may  be 
The  crisis  of  a  long  neurosis,  well 
What  caused  it  ?    But  his  eyes  are  wondrous  clear 
Perceiving  life  knocked  out.    His  heart  is  sick, 
He  takes  his  seat,  admiring  friends  swarm  round  him, 
Conduct  him  to  a  carriage,  he  goes  home 
And  sitting  by  the  fire  (O  what  is  fire  ? 
The  miracle  of  fire  dawns  on  his  thought, 
Fire  has  been  near  him  all  these  years  unseen, 
How  wonderful  is  fire!)  which  warms  and  soothes 
Neuritic  pains,  he  takes  the  rubber  case 
Which  locks  the  images  of  father,  mother. 
And  as  he  stares  upon  the  oval  brow, 
The  eyes  of  blue  which  flash  the  light  of  faith, 
Preserved  like  dendrites  in  this  silver  shimmer, 
Some  spectral  speculations  fill  his  brain, 
Float  like  a  storm  above  the  sorry  wreck 
Of  all  his  logic  tools,  machines;  for  now 
Since  pains  in  back  and  shoulder  like  to  father's 
Fall  to  him  at  the  age  that  father  had  them, 
Father  has  entered  him,  has  settled  down 

[32] 


EXCLUDED  MIDDLE 

To  live  with  him  with  those  neuritic  pangs. 
Thus  are  his  speculations.    Over  all 
How  comes  it  that  a  sudden  feel  of  life, 
Its  wonder,  terror,  beauty  is  like  father's? 
As  if  the  soul  of  father  entered  in  him 
And  made  the  field  of  consciousness  his  own, 
Emotions,  powers  of  thought  his  instruments. 
That  is  a  horrible  atavism,  when 
You  find  yourself  reverting  to  a  soul 
You  have  not  loved,  despite  yourself  becoming 
That  other  soul,  and  with  an  out-worn  self 
Crying  for  burial  on  your  hands,  a  life 
Not  yours  till  now  that  waits  your  new  found  powers- 
Live  now  or  die  indeed ! 


[33] 


SAMUEL  BUTLER  ET  AL. 

Let  me  consider  your  emergence 

From  the  milieu  of  our  youth: 

We  have  played  all  the  afternoon,  grown  hungry. 

No  meal  has  been  prepared,  where  have  you  been? 

Toward  sun's  decline  we  see  you  down  the  path, 

And  run  to  meet  you,  and  perhaps  you  smile, 

Or  take  us  in  your  arms.    Perhaps  again 

You  look  at  us,  say  nothing,  are  absorbed, 

Or  chide  us  for  our  dirty  frocks  or  faces. 

Of  running  wild  without  our  meals 

You  do  not  speak. 

Then  in  the  house,  seized  with  a  sudden  joy, 

After  removing  gloves  and  hat,  you  run, 

As  with  a  winged  descending  flight,  and  cry, 

Half  song,  half  exclamation, 

Seize  one  of  us, 

Crush  one  of  us  with  mad  embraces,  bite 

Ears  of  us  in  a  rapture  of  affection. 

"You  shall  have  supper,"  then  you  say. 

The  stove  lids  rattle,  wood's  poked  in  the  fire, 

The  kettle  steams,  pots  boil,  by  seven  o'clock 

We  sit  down  to  a  meal  of  hodge-podge  stuff. 

134] 


SAMUEL  BUTLER  ET  AL. 

I  I  understand  now  how  your  youth  and  spirits 

I  Fought  back  the  drabness  of  the  village, 
And  wonder  not  you  spent  the  afternoons 
With  such  bright  company  as  Eugenia  Turner — 
And  I  forgive  you  hunger,  loneliness. 

But  when  we  asked  you  where  you'd  been, 

Complained  of  loneliness  and  hunger,  spoke  of  children 

Who  lived  in  order,  sat  down  thrice  a  day 

To  cream  and  porridge,  bread  and  meat. 

We  think  to  corner  you — alas  for  us ! 

Your  anger  flashes  swords!    Reasons  pour  out 

Like  anvil  sparks  to  justify  your  way: 

"Your  father's  always  gone — you  selfish  children, 

You'd  have  me  in  the  house  from  morn  till  night." 

You  put  us  in  the  wrong — our  cause  is  routed. 

We  turn  to  bed  unsatisfied  in  mind, 

You've  overwhelmed  us,  not  convinced  us. 

Our  sense  of  wrong  defeat  breeds  resolution 

To  whip  you  out  when  minds  grow  strong. 

Up  in  the  moon-lit  room  without  a  light, 

(The  lamps  have  not  been  filled,) 

We  crawl  in  unmade  beds. 

We  leave  you  pouring  over  paper  backs. 

We  peek  above  your  shoulder. 

It  is  "The  Lady  in  White"  you  read. 

Next  morning  you  are  dead  for  sleep, 

[35] 


TOWARD  THE  GULF 

You've  sat  up  more  than  half  the  night. 
We  have  been  playing  hours  when  you  arise, 
It's  nine  o'clock  when  breakfast's  served  at  last, 
When  school  days  come  I'm  always  late  to  school. 

Shy,  hungry  children  scuffle  at  your  door, 

Eye  through  the  crack,  maybe,  at  nine  o'clock, 

Find  father  has  returned  during  the  night. 

You  are  all  happiness,  his  idlest  word 

Provokes  your  laughter. 

He  shows  us  rolls  of  precious  money  earned; 

He's  given  you  a  silk  dress,  money  too 

For  suits  and  shoes  for  us — all  is  forgiven. 

You  run  about  the  house, 

As  with  a  winged  descending  flight  and  cry 

Half  song,  half  exclamation. 

We're  sick  so  much.    But  then  no  human  soul 
Could  be  more  sweet  when  one  of  us  is  sick. 
We  run  to  colds,  have  measles,  mumps,  our  throats 
Are  weak,  the  doctor  says.    If  rooms  were  warmer, 
And  clothes  were  warmer,  food  more  regular, 
And  sleep  more  regular,  it  might  be  different. 
Then  there's  the  well.    You  fear  the  water. 
He  laughs  at  you,  we  children  drink  the  water, 
Though  it  tastes  bitter,  shows  white  particles: 
It  may  be  shreds  of  rats  drowned  in  the  well. 
The  village  has  no  drainage,  blights  and  mildews 

[36] 


SAMUEL  BUTLER  ET  AL. 

Get  in  our  throats.    I  spend  a  certain  spring 

Bent  over,  yellow,  coughing  blood  at  times, 

Sick  to  somnambulistic  sense  of  things. 

You  blame  him  for  the  well,  that's  just  one  thing. 

You  seem  to  differ  about  everything — 

You  seem  to  hate  each  other — when  you  quarrel 

We  cry,  take  sides,  sometimes  are  whipped 

For  taking  sides. 

Our  broken  school  days  lose  us  clues, 

Some  lesson  has  been  missed,  the  final  meaning 

And  wholeness  of  the  grammar  are  disturbed — 

That  shall  not  be  made  up  in  all  our  life. 

The  children,  save  a  few,  are  not  our  friends, 

Some  taunt  us  with  your  quarrels. 

We  learn  great  secrets  scrawled  in  signs  or  words 

Of  foulness  on  the  fences.    So  it  is 

An  American  village,  in  a  great  Republic, 

Where  men  are  free,  where  therefore  goodness,  wisdom 

Must  have  their  way! 

We  reach  the  budding  age. 

Sweet  aches  are  in  our  breasts: 

Is  it  spring,  or  God,  or  music,  is  it  you? 

I  am  all  tenderness  for  you  at  times, 

Then  hate  myself  for  feeling  so,  my  flesh 

Crawls  by  an  instinct  from  you.    You  repel  me 

Sometimes  with  an  insidious  smile,  a  look. 

[37] 


TOWARD  THE  GULF 

What  are  these  phantasies  I  have?    They  breed 
Strange  hatred  for  you,  even  while  I  feel 
My  soul's  home  is  with  you,  must  be  with  you 
To  find  my  soul's  rest.  .  .  . 

I  must  go  back  a  little.    At  ten  years 

I  play  with  Paula. 

I  plait  her  crowns  of  flowers,  carry  her  books, 

Defend  her,  watch  her,  choose  her  in  the  games. 

You  overhear  us  under  the  oak  tree 

Calling  her  doll  our  child.    You  catch  my  coat 

And  draw  me  in  the  house. 

When  I  resist  you  whip  me  cruelly. 

To  think  of  whipping  me  at  such  time, 

And  mix  the  shame  of  smarting  legs  and  back 

With  love  of  Paula! 

So  I  lose  Paula. 

I  am  a  man  at  last. 

I  now  can  master  what  you  are  and  see 

What  you  have  been.  You  cannot  rout  me  now, 

Or  put  me  in  the  wrong.    Out  of  old  wounds, 

Remembrance  of  your  baffling  days, 

I  take  great  strength  and  show  you 

Where  you  have  been  untruthful,  where  a  hater, 

Where  narrow,  bitter,  growing  in  on  self, 

Where  you  neglected  us, 

Where  you  heaped  fast  destruction  on  our  father- 

[38] 


SAMUEL  BUTLER  ET  AL. 

For  now  I  know  that  you  devoured  his  soul, 
And  that  no  soul  that  you  could  not  devour 
Could  have  its  peace  with  you. 
You've  dwindled  to  a  quiet  word  like  this: 
"You  are  unfilial."    Which  means  at  last 
That  I  have  conquered  you,  at  least  it  means 
That  you  could  not  devour  me. 

Yet  am  I  blind  to  you  ?    Let  me  confess 

You  are  the  world's  whole  cycle  in  yourself: 

You  can  be  summer  rich  and  luminous; 

You  can  be  autumn,  mellow,  mystical; 

You  can  be  winter  with  a  cheerful  hearth; 

You  can  be  March,  bitter,  bright  and  hard, 

Pouring  sharp  sleet,  and  showering  cutting  hail; 

You  can  be  April  of  the  flying  cloud, 

And  intermittent  sun  and  musical  air. 

I  am  not  you  while  being  you, 

While  finding  in  myself  so  much  of  you. 

It  tears  my  other  self,  which  is  not  you. 

My  tragedy  is  this:  I  do  not  love  you. 

Your  tragedy  is  this:  my  other  self 

Which  triumphs  over  you,  you  hate  at  heart. 

Your  solace  is  you  have  no  faith  in  me. 

All  quiet  now,  no  March  days  with  you  now, 
Only  the  soft  coals  slumbering  in  your  face, 

[39] 


TOWARD  THE  GULF 

I  saw  you  totter  over  a  ravine ! 

Your  eyes  averted,  watching  steps, 

A  light  of  resignation  on  your  brow. 

Your  thin-spun  hair  all  gray,  blown  by  the  wind 

Which  swayed  the  blossomed  cherry  trees, 

Bent  last  year's  reeds, 

Shook  early  dandelions,  and  tossed  a  bird 

That  left  a  branch  with  song— 

I  saw  you  totter  over  a  ravine! 

What  were  you  at  the  start  ? 

What  soul  dissatisfaction,  sense  of  wrong, 

Of  being  thwarted,  stung  you  ? 

What  was  your  shrinking  of  the  flesh; 

What  fear  of  being  soiled,  misunderstood, 

What  wrath  for  loneliness  which  constant  hope 

Saw  turned  to  fine  companionship; 

What  in  your  marriage,  what  in  seeing  me, 

The  fruit  of  marriage,  recreated  traits 

Of  face  or  spirit  which  you  loathed; 

What  in  your  father  and  your  mother, 

And  in  the  chromosomes  from  which  you  grew, 

By  what  mitosis  could  result  at  last 

In  you,  in  issues  of  such  moment, 

In  our  dissevered  beings, 

In  what  the  world  will  take  from  me 

In  children,  in  events? 

[40] 


SAUMEL  BUTLER  ET  AL. 

All  quiet  now,  no  March  days  with  you  now, 
Only  the  soft  coals  slumbering  in  your  face, 
I  saw  you  totter  over  a  ravine, 
And  back  of  you  the  Furies! 


JOHNNY  APPLESEED 

When  the  air  of  October  is  sweet  and  cold  as  the  wine 
of  apples 

Hanging  ungathered  in  frosted  orchards  along  the 
Grand  River, 

I  take  the  road  that  winds  by  the  resting  fields  and 
wander 

From  Eastmanville  to  Nunica  down  to  the  Villa  Cross 
ing. 

I  look  for  old  men  to  talk  with,  men  as  old  as  the  or 
chards, 

Men  to  tell  me  of  ancient  days,  of  those  who  built  and 
planted, 

Lichen  gray,  branch  broken,  bent  and  sighing, 

Hobbling  for  warmth  in  the  sun  and  for  places  to  sit 
and  smoke. 

For  there  is  a  legend  here,  a  tale  of  the  croaking  old  ones 

That  Johnny  Appleseed  came  here,  planted  some  or 
chards  around  here, 

When  nothing  was  here  but  the  pine  trees,  oaks  and 
the  beeches, 

And  nothing  was  here  but  the  marshes,  lake  and  the 
river. 


JOHNNY  APPLESEED 

Peter  Van  Zylen  is  ninety  and  this  he  tells  me: 

My  father  talked  with  Johnny  Appleseed  there  on  the 

hill-side, 

There  by  the  road  on  the  way  to  Fruitport,  saw  him 
Clearing  pines  and  oaks  for  a  place  for  an  apple  orchard. 

Peter  Van  Zylen  says:  He  got  that  name  from  the 

people 

For  carrying  apple-seed  with  him  and  planting  orchards 
All  the  way  from  Ohio,  through  Indiana  across  here, 
Planting  orchards,  they  say,  as  far  as  Illinois. 

Johnny  Appleseed  said,  so  my  father  told  me: 

I  go  to  a  place  forgotten,  the  orchards  will  thrive  and 
be  here 

For  children  to  come,  who  will  gather  and  eat  here 
after. 

And  few  will  know  who  planted,  and  none  will  under 
stand. 

I  laugh,  said  Johnny  Appleseed:  Some  fellow  buys  this 

timber 
Five  years,  perhaps  from  to-day,  begins  to  clear  for 

barley. 
And  here  in  the  midst  of  the  timber  is  hidden  an  apple 

orchard. 
How  did  it  come  here  ?    Lord !    Who  was  it  here  before 

me? 

[43] 


TOWARD  THE  GULF 

Yes,  I  was  here  before  him,  to  make  these  places  of 

worship, 

Labor  and  laughter  and  gain  in  the  late  October. 
Why  did  I  do  it,  eh  ?  Some  folks  say  I  am  crazy. 
Where  do  my  labors  end  ?  Far  west,  God  only  knows! 

Said  Johnny  Appleseed  there  on  the  hill-side:  Listen! 

Beware  the  deceit  of  nurseries,  sellers  of  seeds  of  the 
apple. 

Think !  You  labor  for  years  in  trees  not  worth  the  rais 
ing. 

You  planted  what  you  knew  not,  bitter  or  sour  for 
sweet. 

No   luck    more    bitter   than    poor   seed,    but   one    as 

bitter: 
The  planting  of  perfect  seed   in  soil  that  feeds   and 

fails, 

Nourishes  for  a  little,  and  then  goes  spent  forever. 
Look  to  your  seed,  he  said,  and  remember  the  soil. 

And  after  that  is  the  fight:  the  foe  curled  up  at  the 

root, 
The  scale  that  crumples  and  deadens,  the  moth  in  the 

blossoms 
Becoming  a  life  that  coils  at  the  core  of  a  thing  of 

beauty: 
You  bite  your  apple,  a  worm  is  crushed  on  your  tongue! 

[44] 


JOHNNY  APPLESEED 

And  it's  every  bit  the  truth,  said  Peter  Van  Zylen. 
So  many  things  love  an  apple  as  well  as  ourselves. 
A  man  must  fight  for  the  thing  he  loves,  to  possess  it: 
Apples,  freedom,  heaven,  said  Peter  Van  Zylen. 


[45] 


THE  LOOM 

My  brother,  the  god,  and  I  grow  sick 

Of  heaven's  heights. 

We  plunge  to  the  valley  to  hear  the  tick 

Of  days  and  nights. 

We  walk  and  loiter  around  the  Loom 

To  see,  if  we  may, 

The  Hand  that  smashes  the  beam  in  the  gloon 

To  the  shuttle's  play; 

Who  grows  the  wool,  who  cards  and  spins, 

Who  clips  and  ties; 

For  the  storied  weave  of  the  Gobelins, 

Who  draughts  and  dyes. 

But  whether  you  stand  or  walk  around 

You  shall  but  hear 

A  murmuring  life,  as  it  were  the  sound 

Of  be^es  or  a  sphere. 

No  Hand  is  seen,  but  still  you  may  feel 

A  pulse  in  the  thread, 

And  thought  in  every  lever  and  wheel 

Where  the  shuttle  sped, 

Dripping  the  colors,  as  crushed  and  urged— 

Is  it  cochineal? — 

Shot  from  the  shuttle,  woven  and  merged 

[46] 


THE  LOOM 

A  tale  to  reveal. 

Woven  and  wound  in  a  bolt  and  dried 

As  it  were  a  plan. 

Closer  I  looked  at  the  thread  and  cried 

The  thread  is  man ! 

Then  my  brother  curious,  strong  and  bold, 

Tugged  hard  at  the  bolt 

Of  the  woven  life;  for  a  length  unrolled 

The  cryptic  cloth. 

He  gasped  for  labor,  blind  for  the  moult 

Of  the  up-winged  moth. 

While  I  saw  a  growth  and  a  mad  crusade 

That  the  Loom  had  made; 

Land  and  water  and  living  things, 

Till  I  grew  afraid 

For  mouths  and  claws  and  devil  wings, 

And  fangs  and  stings, 

And  tiger  faces  with  eyes  of  hell 

In  caves  and  holes. 

And  eyes  in  terror  and  terrible 

For  awakened  souls. 

I  stood  above  my  brother,  the  god 

Unwinding  the  roll. 

And  a  tale  came  forth  of  the  woven  slain 

Sequent  and  whole, 

Of  flint  and  bronze,  trowel  and  hod, 

[47] 


TOWARD  THE  GULF 

The  wheel  and  the  plane, 

The  carven  stone  and  the  graven  clod 

Painted  and  baked. 

And  cromlechs,  proving  the  human  heart 

Has  always  ached; 

Till  it  puffed  with  blood  and  gave  to  art 

The  dream  of  the  dome; 

Till  it  broke  and  the  blood  shot  up  like  fire 

In  tower  and  spire. 

And  here  was  the  Persian,  Jew  and  Goth 

In  the  weave  of  the  cloth; 

Greek  and  Roman,  Ghibelline,  Guelph, 

Angel  and  elf. 

They  were  dyed  in  blood,  tangled  in  dreams 

Like  a  comet's  streams. 

And  here  were  surfaces  red  and  rough 

In  the  finished  stuff, 

Where  the  knotted  thread  was  proud  and  rebelled 

As  the  shuttle  proved 

The  fated  warp  and  woof  that  held 

When  the  shuttle  moved; 

And  pressed  the  dye  which  ran  to  loss 

In  a  deep  maroon 

Around  an  altar,  oracle,  cross 

Or  a  crescent  moon. 

Around  a  face,  a  thought,  a  star 

In  a  riot  of  war! 

[48] 


THE  LOOM 

Then  I  said  to  my  brother,  the  god,  let  be, 

Though  the  thread  be  crushed, 

And  the  living  things  in  the  tapestry 

Be  woven  and  hushed; 

The  Loom  has  a  tale,  you  can  see,  to  tell, 

And  a  tale  has  told. 

I  love  this  Gobelin  epical 

Of  scarlet  and  gold. 

If  the  heart  of  a  god  may  look  in  pride 

At  the  wondrous  weave 

It  is  something  better  to  Hands  which  guide 

I  see  and  believe. 


[491 


DIALOGUE  AT  PERKO'S 

Look  here,  Jack: 

You  don't  act  natural.    You  have  lost  your  laugh. 

You  haven't  told  me  any  stones.    You 

Just  lie  there  half  asleep.    What's  on  your  mind? 

JACK 
What  time  is  it  ?    Where  is  my  watch  ? 

FLORENCE 

Your  watch 

Under  your  pillow!    You  don't  think  I'd  take  it. 
Why,  Jack,  what  talk  for  you. 

JACK 

Well,  never  mind, 
Let's  pack  no  ice. 

FLORENCE 

What's  that? 


JACK 

No  quarreling  — 


What  is  the  time? 


DIALOGUE  AT  PERKO'S 

FLORENCE 

Look  over  towards  my  dresser — 
My  clock  says  half-past  eleven. 

JACK 

Listen  to  that — 

That  hurdy-gurdy's  playing  Holy  Night, 
And  on  this  street. 

FLORENCE 
And  why  not  on  this  street? 

JACK 

You  may  be  right.    It  may  as  well  be  played 
Where  you  live  as  in  front  of  where  I  work, 
Some  twenty  stories  up.    I  think  you're  right. 

FLORENCE 

Say,  Jack,  what  is  the  matter?    Come!  be  gay. 
Tell  me  some  stories.    Buy  another  bottle. 
Just  think  you  make  a  lot  of  money,  Jack. 
You're  young  and  prominent.    They  all  know  you. 
I  hear  your  name  all  over  town.    I  see 
Your  picture  in  the  papers.    What's  the  matter? 

JACK 
I've  lost  my  job  for  one  thing. 


TOWARD  THE  GULF 

FLORENCE 

You  don't  mean  it! 

JACK 

They  used  me  and  then  fired  me,  same  as  you. 
If  you  don't  make  the  money,  out  you  go. 

FLORENCE 
Yes,  out  I  go.    But,  there  are  other  places. 

JACK 
On  further  down  the  street. 

FLORENCE 

Not  yet  a  while. 

JACK 

Not  yet  for  me,  but  still  the  question  is 
Whether  to  fight  it  out  for  up  or  down, 
Or  run  from  everything,  be  free. 

FLORENCE 
You  can't  do  that. 

JACK 
Why  not? 

[52] 


DIALOGUE  AT  PERKO'S 

FLORENCE 

No  more  than  I. 

Oh  well  perhaps,  if  a  nice  man  came  by 
To  marry  me  then  I  could  get  away. 
It  happens  all  the  time.    Last  week  in  fact 
Christ  Perko  married  Rachel  who  lived  here. 
He's  rich  as  cream. 

JACK 

What  corresponds  to  marriage 
To  take  me  from  slavery? 

FLORENCE 
Money  is  everything. 

JACK 

Yes,  everything  and  nothing. 
Christ  Perko's  rich,  Christ  Perko  runs  this  house, 
The  madam  merely  acts  as  figure-head; 
Keeps  check  upon  the  girls  and  on  the  wine. 
She's  just  the  editor,  and  yet  I'd  rather 
Be  editor  than  owner.    I  was  editor. 
My  Perko  was  the  owner  of  a  pulp  mill, 
Incorporate  through  some  multi-millionaires, 
And  all  our  lesser  writers  were  the  girls, 
Like  you  and  Rachel. 

[53] 


TOWARD  THE  GULF 

FLORENCE 

But  you  know  before 
He  married  Rachel,  he  was  lover  to 
The  madam  here. 

JACK 

The  stories  tally,  for 

The  pulp  mill  took  my  first  assistant  editor 
To  wife  by  making  him  the  editor. 
And  I  was  fired  just  as  the  madam  here 
Lost  out  with  Perko. 

FLORENCE 

This  is  growing  funny.  .  . 
Ahem !    I'll  ask  you  something — 
As  if  I  were  a  youth  and  you  a  girl- 
How  were  you  ruined  first  ? 

JACK 

The  same  as  you: 

You  ran  away  from  school.    It  was  romance. 
You  thought  you  loved  this  flashy  travelling  man. 
And  I — I  loved  adventure,  loved  the  truth. 
I  wanted  to  destroy  'the  force  called  "They." 
There  is  no  "They" — we're  all  together  here, 
And  everyone  must  live,  Christ  Perko  too, 
The  pulp-mill,  the  policeman,  magistrate, 

[54] 


DIALOGUE  AT  PERKO'S 

The  alderman,  the  precinct  captain  too, 

And  you  the  girls,  myself  the  editor, 

And  all  the  lesser  writers.    Here  we  are 

Thrown  in  one  integrated  lot.    You  see 

There  is  no  "They,"  except  the  terms,  the  thought 

Which  ramifies  and  vivifies  the  whole.  .  .  . 

So  I  came  to  the  city,  went  to  work 

Reporting  for  a  paper.    Having  said 

There  is  no  "They" — Pve  freed  myself  to  say 

What  bitter  things  I  choose.    For  how  they  drive  you, 

And  terrify  you,  mock  you,  ridicule  you, 

And  call  you  cub  and  greenhorn,  send  you  round 

To  courts  and  dirty  places,  make  you  risk 

Your  body  and  your  life,  and  make  you  watch 

The  rules  about  your  writing;  what's  tabooed, 

What  names  are  to  be  cursed  or  to  be  praised, 

What  interests,  policies  to  be  subserved, 

And  what  to  undermine.    So  I  went  through, 

Until  I  had  a  desk,  wrote  editorials — 

Now  said  I  to  myself,  I'm  free  at  last. 

But  no,  my  manager,  your  madam,  mark  you, 

Kept  eye  on  me,  for  he  was  under  watch 

Of  some  Christ  Perko.    So  my  manager 

Blue  penciled  me  when  I  touched  certain  subjects. 

But,  as  he  was  a  just  man,  loved  me  too 

He  gave  me  things  to  write  where  he  could  let 

My  conscience  have  full  scope,  as  you  might  live 

In  this  house  where  you  saw  the  man  you  loved, 

issi 


TOWARD  THE  GULF 

And  no  one  else,  though  living  in  this  hell. 

For  I  lived  in  a  hell,  who  saw  around  me 

Such  lying,  hatred,  malice,  prostitution. 

And  when  this  offer  came  to  be  an  editor 

Of  a  great  magazine,  I  seemed  to  feel 

My  courage  and  my  virtue  given  reward. 

Now,  I  should  pass  on  poems,  and  on  stories, 

Creations  of  free  souls.    It  was  not  so. 

The  poems  and  the  stories  one  could  see 

Were  written  to  be  sold,  to  please  a  taste, 

Placate  a  prejudice,  keep  still  alive 

An  era  dying,  ready  for  the  tomb, 

Already  smelling.    And  that  was  not  all. 

Just  as  the  madam  here  must  make  report 

To  Perko,  so  the  magazine  had  to  run 

To  suit  the  pulp  mill.    As  the  madam  here, 

Assistant  to  Christ  Perko,  must  keep  friends 

With  alderman,  policemen,  magistrates, 

So  I  was  just  a  wheel  in  a  machine 

To  keep  it  running  with  such  larger  wheels, 

And  by  them  run,  of  policies,  and  politics 

Of  State  and  Nation.    Here  was  I  locked  in 

And  given  dope  to  keep  me  still  lest  I 

Cry  out  and  wake  the  copper — who's  the  copper 

For  such  as  I  was?    If  he  heard  me  cry 

How  could  he  raid  the  magazine?    If  he  raided 

Where  was  the  court  to  take  me  and  the  rest — 

That's  it,  where  is  the  court? 

[56] 


DIALOGUE  AT  PERKO'S 

FLORENCE 

It  seems  to  me 
You're  bad  as  I  am. 

JACK 

I  am  worse  than  you: 

I  poison  minds  with  thoughts  they  take  as  good.  f> 
I  drug  an  era,  make  it  foul  or  dull — 
You  only  sicken  bodies  here  and  there. 
But  you  know  how  it  is.    You  have  remorse, 
You  fight  it  down,  hush  it  with  sophistry. 
You  think  about  the  world,  about  your  fellows: 
You  see  that  everyone  is  selling  self, 
Little  or  much  somehow.    You  feed  your  body, 
Try  to  be  hearty,  take  things  as  they  come. 
You  take  athletics,  try  to  keep  your  strength, 
As  you  hear  music,  laugh,  drink  wine,  and  smoke, 
Are  bathed  and  coifed  to  keep  your  beauty  fresh. 
And  through  it  all  the  soul's  and  body's  needs, 
The  pleasures,  interests,  passions  of  our  life, 
The  cry  that  comes  from  somewhere:  "Live,  O  Soul, 
The  time  is  passing,"  move  and  claim  your  strength. 
Till  you  forget  yourself,  forget  the  boy 
And  man  you  were,  forget  the  dreams  you  had, 
The  creed  you  wished  to  live  by — yes,  what's  worse, 
See  dreams  you  had,  grown  tawdry,  see  your  creed 
Cracked  through  and  crumbled  like  a  falling  house. 
And  then  you  say:  What  is  the  difference? 

[57] 


TOWARD  THE  GULF 

As  you  might  ask  what  virtue  is  and  why 
Should  woman  keep  it. 

I  have  reached  this  place 

Save  for  one  truth  I  hold  to,  shall  still  hold  to: 
As  long  as  I  have  breath:  The  man  who  sees  not, 
Or  cares  not  for  the  Truth  that  keeps  the  world 
From  vast  disintegration  is  a  brute, 
And  marked  for  a  brute's  death — that  is  his  hell. 
'Twas  loyalty  to  this  truth  that  made  me  lose 
My  place  as  editor.    For  when  they  came 
And  tried  to  make  me  pass  an  article 
To  poison  millions  with,  I  said,  "I  won't, 
I  won't  by  God.    I'll  quit  before  I  do." 
And  then  they  said,  "You  quit,"  and  so  I  quit. 

FLORENCE 

And  so  you  took  to  drink  and  came  to  me! 
And  that's  the  same  as  if  I  came  to  you 
And  used  you  as  an  editor.    I  am  nothing 
But  just  a  poor  reporter  in  this  house — 
But  now  I  quit. 

JACK 
Where  are  you  going,  Florence? 

FLORENCE 

I'm  going  to  a  village  or  a  farm 

Where  I'll  get  up  at  six  instead  of  twelve, 

[58] 


DIALOGUE  AT  PERKO'S 

Where  I'll  wear  calico  instead  of  silk, 

And  where  there'll  be  no  furnace  in  the  house. 

And  where  the  carpet  which  has  kept  me  here 

And  keeps  you  here  as  editor  is  not. 

I'm  going  to  economize  my  life 

By  freeing  it  of  systems  which  grow  rich 

By  using  me,  and  for  the  privilege 

Bestow  these  gaudy  clothes  and  perfumed  bed. 

I  hate  you  now,  because  I  hate  my  life. 

JACK 
Wait!  Wait  a  minute. 

FLORENCE 

Dinah,  call  a  cab! 


[59] 


SIR  GALAHAD 

I  met  Hosea  Job  on  Randolph  Street 
Who  said  to  me:  "I'm  going  for  the  train, 
I  want  you  with  me." 

And  it  happened  then 

My  mind  was  hard,  as  muscles  of  the  back 
Grow  hard  resisting  cold  or  shock  or  strain 
And  need  the  osteopath  to  be  made  supple, 
To  give  the  nerves  and  streams  of  life  a  chance. 
Hosea  Job  was  just  the  osteopath 
To  loose,  relax  my  mood.    And  so  I  said 
"All  right" — and  went. 

Hosea  was  a  man 

Whom  nothing  touched  of  danger,  or  of  harm. 
His  life  was  just  a  rare-bit  dream,  where  some  one 
Seems  like  to  fall  before  a  truck  or  train — 
Instead  he  walks  across  them.    Or  you  see 
Shadows  of  falling  things,  great  buildings  topple, 
Pianos  skid  like  bulls  from  hellish  corners 
And  chase  the  oblivious  fool  who  stands  and  smiles. 
The  buildings  slant  and   sway  like  monstrous   search 
lights, 

But  never  touch  him.    And  the  mad  piano 
Comes  up  to  him,  puts  down  its  angry  head, 

[60] 


SIR  GALAHAD 

Runs  out  a  friendly  tongue  and  licks  his  hand, 
And  lows  a  symphony. 

By  which  I  mean 

Hosea  had  some  money,  and  would  sign 
A  bond  or  note  for  any  man  who  asked  him. 
He'd  rent  a  house  and  leave  it,  rent  another, 
Then  rent  a  farm,  move  out  from  town  and  in. 
He'd  have  the  leases  of  superfluous  places 
Cancelled  some  how,  was  never  sued  for  rent. 
One  time  he  had  a  fancy  he  would  see 
South  Africa,  took  ship  with  a  load  of  mules, 
First  telegraphing  home  from  New  Orleans 
He'd  be  back  in  the  Spring.    Likewise  he  went 
To  Klondike  with  the  rush.    I  think  he  owned 
More  kinds  of  mining  stock  than  there  were  mines. 
He  had  more  quaint,  peculiar  men  for  friends 
Than  one  could  think  were  living.    He  believed 
In  every  doctrine  in  its  time,  that  promised 
Salvation  for  the  world.    He  took  no  thought 
For  life  or  for  to-morrow,  or  for  health, 
Slept  with  his  windows  closed,  ate  what  he  wished. 
And  if  he  cut  his  finger,  let  it  go. 
I  offered  him  peroxide  once,  he  laughed. 
And  when  I  asked  him  if  his  soul  was  saved 
He  only  said:  "I  see  things.    I  lie  back 
And  take  it  easy.    Nothing  can  go  wrong 
In  any  serious  sense." 


TOWARD  THE  GULF 

So  many  thought 

Hosea  was  a  nut,  and  others  thought, 
That  I  was  just  a  nut  for  liking  him. 
And  what  would  any  man  of  business  say 
If  he  knew  that  I  didn't  ask  a  question, 
But  simply  went  with  him  to  take  the  train 
That  day  he  asked  me. 

And  the  train  had  gone 

Five  miles  or  so  when  I  said:  "Where  you  going?  " 
Hosea  answered,  and  it  made  me  start — 
Hosea  answered  simply,  "We  are  going 
To  see  Sir  Galahad." 

It  made  me  start 

To  hear  Hosea  say  this,  for  I  thought 
He  was  now  really  off.    But,  I  looked  at  him 
And  saw  his  eyes  were  sane. 

"Sir  Galahad? 
"Who  is  Sir  Galahad?5' 

Hosea  answered: 

"I'm  going  up  to  see  Sir  Galahad, 
And  sound  him  out  about  re-entering 
The  game  and  run  for  governor  again." 

So  then  I  knew  he  was  the  man  our  fathers 
Worked  with  and  knew  and  called  Sir  Galahad, 

[62! 


SIR  GALAHAD 

Now  in  retirement  fifteen  years  or  so. 

Well,  I  was  twenty-five  when  he  was  famous. 

Sir  Galahad  was  forty  then,  and  now 

Must  be  some  fifty-five  while  I  am  forty. 

So  flashed  across  my  thought  the  matter  of  time 

And  ages.    So  I  thought  of  all  he  did: 

Of  how  he  went  from  faith  to  faith  in  politics 

And  ran  for  every  office  up  to  governor, 

And  ran  for  governor  four  times  or  so, 

And  never  was  elected  to  an  office. 

He  drew  more  bills  to  remedy  injustice, 

Improve  the  courts,  relieve  the  poor,  reform 

Administration,  than  the  legislature 

Could  read,  much  less  digest  or  understand. 

The  people  beat  him  and  the  leaders  flogged  him, 

They  shut  the  door  against  his  face  until 

He  had  no  place  to  go  except  a  farm 

Among  the  stony  hills,  and  there  he  went. 

And  thither  we  were  going  to  see  the  knight, 

And  call  him  from  his  solitude  to  the  fight 

Against  injustice,  greed. 

So  we  got  off" 

The  train  at  Alden,  just  a  little  village 
Of  fifty  houses  lying  beneath  the  sprawl 
Of  hills  and  hills.    And  here  there  was  a  stillness 
Made  lonelier  by  an  anvil  ringing,  by 
A  plow-man's  voice  at  intervals. 


TOWARD  THE  GULF 

Here  Hosea 

Engaged  a  horse  and  buggy,  and  we  drove 
And  wound  about  a  crooked  road  between 
Great  hills  that  stood  together  like  the  backs 
Of  elephants  in  a  herd,  where  boulders  lay 
As  thick  as  hail  in  places.    Ruined  pines 
Stood  like  burnt  matches.    There  was  one  which  stuck 
Against  a  single  cloud  so  white  it  seemed 
A  bursted  bale  of  cotton. 

We  reached  the  summit 
And  drove  along  past  orchards,  past  a  field 
Level  and  green,  kept  like  a  garden,  rich 
Against  the  coming  harvest.    Here  we  met 
A  scarecrow  man,  driving  a  scarecrow  horse 
Hitched  to  a  wobbly  wagon.    And  we  stopped, 
The  scarecrow  stopped.    The  scarecrow  and  Hosea 
Talked  much  of  people  and  of  farming — I 
Sat  listening,  and  I  gathered  from  the  talk, 
And  what  Hosea  told  me  as  we  drove, 
That  once  this  field  so  level  and  so  green 
The  scarecrow  owned.    He  had  cleaned  out  the  stumps, 
And  tried  to  farm  it,  failed,  and  lost  the  field, 
But  raged  to  lose  it,  thought  he  might  succeed 
In  further  time.    Now  having  lost  the  field 
So  many  years  ago,  could  be  a  scarecrow, 
And  drive  a  scarecrow  horse,  yet  laugh  again 
And  have  no  care,  the  sorrow  healed. 

[64! 


SIR  GALAHAD 

It  seemed 

The  clearing  of  the  stumps  was  scarce  a  starter 
Toward  a  field  of  profit.    For  in  truth, 
The  soil  possessed  a  secret  which  the  scarecrow 
Never  went  deep  enough  to  learn  about. 
His  problem  was  all  stumps.    Not  solving  that, 
He  sold  it  to  a  farmer  who  out-slaved 
The  busiest  bee,  but  only  half  succeeded. 
He  tried  to  raise  potatoes,  made  a  failure. 
He  planted  it  in  beans,  had  half  a  crop. 
He  sowed  wheat  once  and  reaped  a  stack  of  straw. 
The  secret  of  the  soil  eluded  him. 
And  here  Hosea  laughed:  "This  fellow's  failure 
Was  just  the  thing  that  gave  another  man 
The  secret  of  the  soil.    For  he  had  studied 
The  properties  of  soils  and  fertilizers. 
And  when  he  heard  the  field  had  failed  to  raise 
Potatoes,  beans  and  wheat,  he  simply  said: 
There  are  other  things  to  raise:  the  question  is 
Whether  the  soil  is  suited  to  the  things 
He  tried  to  raise,  or  whether  it  needs  building 
To  raise  the  things  he  tried  to  raise,  or  whether 
It  must  be  builded  up  for  anything. 
At  least  he  said  the  field  is  clear  of  stumps. 
Pass  on  your  field,  he  said.    If  I  lose  out 
I'll  pass  it  on.    The  field  is  his,  he  said 
Who  can  make  something  grow. 


TOWARD  THE  GULF 

And  so  this  field 

Of  waving  wheat  along  which  we  were  driving 
Was  just  the  very  field  the  scarecrow  man 
Had  failed  to  master,  as  that  other  man 
Had  failed  to  master  after  him. 

Hosea 

Kept  talking  of  this  field  as  we  drove  on. 
That  field,  he  said,  is  economical 
Of  men  compared  with  many  fields.    You  see 
It  only  used  two  men.    To  grub  the  stumps 
Took  all  the  scarecrow's  strength.    That  other  man 
Ran  ofF  to  Oklahoma  from  this  field. 
I  have  known  fields  that  ate  a  dozen  men 
In  country  such  as  this.    The  field  remains 
And  laughs  and  waits  for  some  one  who  divines 
The  secret  of  the  field.    Some  farmers  live 
To  prove  what  can't  be  done,  and  narrow  down 
The  guess  of  what  is  possible.    It's  right 
A  certain  crop  should  prosper  and  another 
Should  fail,  and  when  a  farmer  tries  to  raise 
A  crop  before  it's  time,  he  wastes  himself 
And  wastes  the  field  to  try. 

We  now  were  climbing 
To  higher  hills  and  rockier  fields.    Hosea 
Had  fallen  into  silence.    I  was  thinking 
About  Sir  Galahad,  was  wondering 

[66] 


SIR  GALAHAD 

Which  man  he  was,  the  scarecrow,  or  the  farmer 
Who  didn't  know  the  seed  to  sow,  or  whether 
He  might  still  prove  the  farmer  raising  wheat, 
Now  we  were  come  to  give  him  back  the  field 
With  all  the  stumps  grubbed  out,  the  secret  lying 
Revealed  and  ready  for  the  appointed  hands. 

We  passed  an  orchard  growing  on  a  knoll 

And  saw  a  barn  perked  on  a  rocky  hill, 

And  near  the  barn  a  house.    Hosea  said: 

"This  is  Sir  Galahad's."    We  tied  the  horse. 

And  we  were  in  the  silence  of  the  country 

At  mid-day  on  a  day  in  June.    No  bird 

Was  singing,  fowl  was  cackling,  cow  was  lowing, 

No  dog  was  barking.    All  was  summer  stillness. 

We  crossed  a  back-yard  past  a  windlass  well, 

Dodged  under  clothes  lines  through  a  place  of  chips, 

Walked  in  a  path  along  the  house.    I  said : 

"Sir  Galahad  is  ploughing,  or  perhaps 

Is  mending  fences,  cutting  weeds."    It  seemed 

Too  bad  to  come  so  far  and  not  to  find  him. 

"We'll  find  him,"  said  Hosea.    "Let  us  sit 

Under  that  tree  and  wait  for  him." 

And  then 

We  turned  the  corner  of  the  house  and  there 
Under  a  tree  an  old  man  sat,  his  head 
Bowed  down  upon  his  breast,  locked  fast  in  sleep. 


TOWARD  THE  GULF 

And  by  his  feet  a  dog  half  blind  and  fat 
Lay  dozing,  too  inert  to  rise  and  bark. 

Hosea  gripped  my  arm.    "Be  still"  he  said. 
"Let's  ask  him  where  Sir  Galahad  is,"  said  I. 
And  then  Hosea  whispered,  "God  forgive  me, 
I  had  forgotten,  you  too  have  forgotten. 
The  man  is  old,  he's  very  old.    The  years 
Go  by  unnoticed.    Come!    Sir  Galahad 
Should  sleep  and  not  be  waked." 

We  tip-toed  off 
And  hurried  back  to  Alden  for  the  train. 


[68 


ST.  DESERET 

You  wonder  at  my  bright  round  eyes,  my  lips 
Pressed  tightly  like  a  venomous  rosette. 
Thus  do  me  honor  by  so  much,  fond  wretch, 
And  praise  my  Persian  beauty,  dulcet  voice. 
But  oh  you  know  me,  read  me,  passion  blinds 
Your  vision  not  at  all,  and  you  have  passion 
For  me  and  what  I  am.    How  can  you  be  so? 
Hold  me  so  bear-like,  take  my  lips  with  yours, 
Bury  your  face  in  these  my  russet  tresses, 
And  yet  not  lose  your  vision?    So  I  love  you, 
And  fear  you  too.    How  idle  to  deny  it 
To  you  who  know  I  fear  you. 

Here  am  I 

Who  answer  you  what  e'er  you  choose  to  ask. 
You  stride  about  my  rooms  and  open  books, 
And  say  when  did  he  give  you  this  ?    You  pick 
His  photograph  from  mantels,  dressers,  drawl 
Out  of  ironic  strength,  and  smile  the  while: 
"You  did  not  love  this  man."    You  probe  my  soul 
About  his  courtship,  how  I  ran  away, 
How  he  pursued  with  gifts  from  city  to  city, 
Threw  bouquets  to  me  from  the  pit,  or  stood 

[69] 


TOWARD  THE  GULF 

Like  Cleopatra's  Giant  negro  guard, 
Watchful  and  waiting  at  the  green-room  door. 
So,  devil,  that  you  are,  with  needle  pricks, 
One  little  question  at  a  time,  you've  inked 
The  story  in  my  flesh.    And  now  at  last 
You  smile  and  say  I  killed  him.    Well,  it's  true. 
But  what  a  death  he  had!    Envy  him  that. 
Your  frigid  soul  can  never  win  the  death 
I  gave  him. 

Listen  since  you  know  already 
All  but  the  subtlest  matters.    How  you  laugh! 
You  know  these  too?    Well,  only  I  can  tell  them. 

First  'twas  a  piteous  thing  to  see  a  man 

So  love  a  woman,  see  a  living  thing 

So  love  another.    Why  he  could  not  touch 

My  hand  but  that  his  heart  went  up  ten  beats. 

His  eyes  would  grow  as  bright  as  flames,  his  breath 

Come    short    when     speaking.      When    he    felt    my 

breast 

Crush  soft  around  him  he  would  reel  and  walk 
Away  from  me,  while  I  stood  like  a  snake 
Poised  for  the  strike,  as  quiet  and  possessed 
As  a  dead  breeze.    And  you  can  have  me  wholly, 
And  pet  and  pat  me  like  a  favored  child, 
And  let  me  go  my  way,  while  you  turn  back 
To  what  you  left  for  me. 

[70] 


ST.  DESERET 

Not  so  with  him : 

I  was  all  through  his  blood,  had  made  his  flesh 
My  flesh,  his  nerves,  brain,  soul  all  mine  at  last, 
Dreams,  thoughts,  emotions,  hungers  all  my  own. 
So  that  he  lived  two  lives,  his  own  and  mine, 
With  one  poor  body,  which  he  gave  to  me. 
Save  that  he  could  not  give  what  I  pushed  back 
Into  his  hands  to  use  for  me  and  live 
My  pities,  hatreds,  loves  and  passions  with. 
I  loved  all  this  and  thrived  upon  it,  still 
I  did  not  love  him.    Then  why  marry  him  ? 
Why  don't  you  see?    It  meant  so  much  to  him. 
And  'twas  a  little  thing  for  me  to  do. 
His  loneliness,  his  hunger,  his  great  passion 
That  showed  in  his  poor  eyes,  his  broken  breath, 
His  chivalry,  his  gifts,  his  poignant  letters, 
His  failing  health,  why  even  woman's  cruelty 
Cannot  deny  such  passion.    Woman's  cruelty 
Takes  other  means  for  finding  its  expression. 
And  mine  found  its  expression — you  have  guessed 
And  so  I  tell  you  all. 

We  were  married  then. 
He  made  a  sacrament  of  our  nuptials, 
Knelt  with  closed  eyes  beside  the  bed,  my  lips 
Pressed  to  his  brow  and  throat.    Unveiled  my  breast 
And  looked,  then  closed  his  eyes.     He  did  not  take  me 
As  man  takes  his  possession,  nature's  way, 


TOWARD  THE  GULF 

In  triumph  of  life,  in  lightning,  no,  he  came 
A  suppliant,  a  worshipper,  and  whispered: 
"What  angel  child  may  lie  upon  the  breast 
Of  this  it's  angel  mother." 

Well,  you  see 

The  tears  came  in  my  eyes,  for  pity  of  him, 
Who  made  so  much  of  what  I  had  to  give, 
And  could  give  easily  whether  'twas  my  rapture 
To  give  or  to  withhold.    And  in  that  moment 
Contempt  of  which  I  had  been  scarcely  conscious 
Lying  diffused  like  dew  around  my  heart 
Drained  down  itself  into  my  heart's  dark  cup 
To  one  bright  drop  of  vital  power,  where 
He  could  not  see  it,  scarcely  knew  that  something 
Gradually  drugged  the  potion  that  he  drank 
In  life  with  me. 

So  we  were  wed  a  year, 
And  he  was  with  me  hourly,  till  at  last 
I  could  not  breathe  for  him,  while  he  could  breathe 
No  where  but  where  I  was.    Then  the  bazaar 
Was  coming  on  where  I  was  to  dance,  and  he 
Had  long  postponed  a  trip  to  England  where 
Great  interests  waited  for  him,  and  with  kisses 
I  pushed  him  to  his  duty,  and  he  went 
Shame  stricken  for  a  duty  long  postponed, 
Unable  to  retort  against  my  words 

[72] 


ST.  DESERET 

When  I  said  "You  must  go;"  for  well  he  knew 
He  should  have  gone  before.    And  as  for  going 
I  pleaded  the  bazaar  and  hate  of  travel, 
And  got  him  off,  and  freed  myself  to  breathe. 

His  life  had  been  too  fast,  his  years  too  many 

To  stand  the  strain  that  came.    There  was  the  worry 

About  the  business,  and  the  labor  over  it. 

There  was  the  war,  and  all  the  fear  and  turmoil 

In  London  for  the  war.    But  most  of  all 

There  was  the  separation.    And  his  letters! 

You've  read  them,  wretch.    Such  letters  never  were 

Of  aching  loneliness  and  pining  love 

And  hope  that  lives  across  three  thousand  miles, 

And  waits  the  day  to  travel  them,  and  fear 

Of  something  which  may  bar  the  way  forever: 

A  storm,  a  wreck,  a  submarine  and  no  day 

Without  a  letter  or  a  cablegram. 

And  look  at  the  endearments — oh  you  fiend 

To  pick  their  words  to  pieces  like  a  botanist 

Who  cuts  a  flower  up  for  his  microscope. 

And  oh  myself  who  let  you  see  these  letters. 

Why  did  I  do  it?    Rather  why  is  it 

You  master  me,  even  as  I  mastered  him? 

At  last  he  finished,  got  his  passage  back. 

He  had  been  gone  three  months.    And  all  these  letters 

Showed  how  he  starved  for  me,  and  scarce  could  wait 

[731 


TOWARD  THE  GULF 

To  take  me  in  his  arms  again,  would  choke 
With  fast  and  heavy  feeding. 

Well,  you  see 

The  contempt  I  spoke  of  which  lay  long  diffused 
Like  dew  around  my  heart,  and  which  at  once 
Drained  down  itself  into  my  heart's  dark  cup 
Grew  brighter,  bitterer,  for  this  obvious  hunger, 
This  thirst  which  could  not  wait,  the  piteous  trembling. 
And  all  the  while  it  seemed  he  thought  his  love 
Grew  sacreder  as  it  grew  uncontrolled, 
And  marked  by  trembling,  choking,  tears  and  sighs. 
This  is  not  love  which  should  be,  has  no  use 
In  this  or  any  world.    And  as  for  me 
I  could  not  stand  it  longer.    And  I  thought 
Of  what  was  best  to  do:  if  'twas  not  best 
To  kill  him  as  the  queen  bee  kills  the  mate 
In  rapture's  own  excess. 

Then  he  arrived. 

I  went  to  meet  him  in  the  car,  pretended 
The  feed  pipe  broke  while  I  was  on  the  way. 
I  was  not  at  the  station  when  he  came. 
I  got  back  to  the  house  and  found  him  gone. 
He  had  run  through  the  rooms  calling  my  name, 
So  Mary  told  me.    Then  he  went  around 
From  place  to  place,  wherever  in  the  village 
He  thought  to  find  me. 

[74] 


ST.  DESERET 

Soon  I  heard  his  steps, 

The  key  in  the  door,  his  winded  breath,  his  call, 
His  running,  stumbling  up  the  stairs,  while  I 
Stood  silent  as  a  shadow  in  our  room, 
My  round  bright  eyes  grown  brighter  for  the  light 
His  life  was  feeding  them.    And  then  he  stood 
Breathless  and  trembling  in  the  door-way,  stood 
Transfixed  with  ecstacy,  then  rushed  and  caught  me 
And  broke  into  loud  tears. 

It  had  to  end. 

One  or  the  other  of  us  had  to  die. 
I  could  not  die  but  by  a  violence, 
And  he  could  die  by  love  alone,  and  love 
I  gave  him  to  his  death. 

Why  tell  you  details 

And  ways  with  which  I  maddened  him,  and  whipped 
The  energies  of  love?    You  have  extracted 
The  secret  in  the  main,  that  'twas  from  love 
He  came  to  death.    His  life  had  been  too  fast, 
His  years  too  many  for  the  daily  rapture 
I  gave  him  after  three  months'  separation. 
And  so  he  died  one  morning,  made  me  free 
Of  nothing  but  his  presence  in  the  flesh. 
His  love  is  on  me  yet,  and  its  effect. 
And  now  you're  here  to  slave  me  differently — 
No  soul  is  ever  free. 


75 


HEAVEN  IS  BUT  THE  HOUR 

Eyes  wide  for  wisdom,  calm  for  joy  or  pain, 

Bright  hair  alloyed  with  silver,  scarcely  gold. 

And  gracious  lips  flower  pressed  like  buds  to  hold 

The  guarded  heart  against  excess  of  rain. 

Hands  spirit  tipped  through  which  a  genius  plays 

With  paints  and  clays, 

And  strings  in  many  keys — 

Clothed  in  an  aura  of  thought  as  soundless  as  a  flood 

Of  sun-shine  where  there  is  no  breeze. 

So  is  it  light  in  spite  of  rhythm  of  blood, 

Or  turn  of  head,  or  hands  that  move,  unite — 

Wind  cannot  dim  or  agitate  the  light. 

From  Plato's  idea  stepping,  wholly  wrought 

From  Plato's  dream,  made  manifest  in  hair, 

Eyes,  lips  and  hands  and  voice, 

As  if  the  stored  up  thought 

From  the  earth  sphere 

Had  given  down  the  being  of  your  choice 

Conjured  by  the  dream  long  sought. 

***** 

For  you  have  moved  in  madness,  rapture,  wrath 

In  and  out  of  the  path 

Drawn  by  the  dream  of  a  face. 

You  have  been  watched,  as  star-men  watch  a  star 

[76] 


HEAVEN  IS  BUT  THE  HOUR 

That  leaves  its  way,  returns  and  leaves  its  way, 
Until  the  exploring  watchers  find,  can  trace 
A  hidden  star  beyond  their  sight,  whose  sway 
Draws  the  erratic  star  so  long  observed — 
So  have  you  wandered,  swerved. 


Always  pursued  and  lost, 

Sometimes  half  found,  half-faced, 

Such  years  we  waste 

With  the  almost: 

The  lips  flower  pressed  like  buds  to  hold 

Guarded  the  heart  of  the  flower, 

But  over  them  eyes  not  hued  as  the  Dream  foretold. 

Or  to  find  the  lips  too  rich  and  the  dower 

Of  eyes  all  gaiety 

Where  wisdom  scarce  can  be. 

Or  to  find  the  eyes,  but  to  find  offence 

In  fingers  where  the  sense 

Falters  with  colors,  strings, 

Not  touching  with  closed  eyes,  out  of  an  immanence 

Of  flame  and  wings. 

Or  to  find  the  light,  but  to  find  it  set  behind 

An  eye  which  is  not  your  dream,  nor  the  shadow  thereof, 

As  it  were  your  lamp  in  a  stranger's  window. 

And  so  almost  to  find 

In  the  great  weariness  of  love. 

*  *  *  * 

[771 


TOWARD  THE  GULF 

Now  this  is  the  tragedy: 

If  the  Idea  did  not  move 

Somewhere  in  the  realm  of  Love, 

Clothing  itself  in  flesh  at  last  for  you  to  see, 

You  could  scarcely  follow  the  gleam. 

And  the  tragedy  is  when  Life  has  made  you  over, 

And  denied  you,  and  dulled  your  dream, 

And  you  no  longer  count  the  cost, 

Nor  the  past  lament, 

You  are  sitting  oblivious  of  your  discontent 

Beside  the  Almost — 

And  then  the  face  appears 

Evoked  from  the  Idea  by  your  dead  desire, 

And  blinds  and  burns  you  like  fire. 

And  you  sit  there  without  tears, 

Though  thinking  it  has  come  to  kill  you,  or  mock  your 

youth 
With  its  half  of  the  truth. 


A  beach  as  yellow  as  gold 

Daisied  with  tents  for  a  lovely  mile. 

And  a  sea  that  edges  and  walls  the  sand  with  blue, 

Matching  the  heaven  without  a  seam, 

Save  for  the  threads  of  foam  that  hold 

With  stitches  the  canopy  rare  as  the  tile 

Of  old  Damascus.    And  O  the  wind 

Which  roars  to  the  roaring  water  brightened 


HEAVEN  IS  BUT  THE  HOUR 

By  the  beating  wings  of  the  sun! 

And  here  I  walk,  not  seeking  the  Dream, 

As  men  walk  absent  of  heart  or  mind 

Who  have  no  wish  for  a  sorrow  lightened 

Since  all  things  now  seem  lost  or  won. 

And  here  it  is  that  your  face  appears! 

Like  a  star  brushed  out  from  leaves  by  a  breeze 

When  day's  in  the  sky,  though  evening  nears. 

You  are  here  by  a  tent  with  your  little  brood, 

And  I  approach  in  a  quiet  mood 

And  see  you,  know  that  the  Destinies 

Have  surrendered  you  at  last. 

Voice,  lips  and  hands  and  the  light  of  the  eyes. 


And  I  who  have  asked  so  much  discover 
That  you  find  in  me  the  man  and  lover 
You  have  divined  and  visualized, 
In  quiet  day  dreams.   And  what  is  strange 
Your  boy  of  eight  is  subtly  guised 
In  fleeting  looks  that  half  resemble 
Something  in  me.    Two  souls  may  range 
Mid  this  earth's  billion  souls  for  life, 
And  hide  their  hunger  or  dissemble. 
For  there  are  two  at  least  created, 
Endowed  with  alien  powers  that  draw, 
And  kindred  powers  that  by  some  law 
Bind  souls  as  like  as  sister,  brother. 

(79} 


TOWARD  THE  GULF 

There  are  two  at  least  who  are  for  each  other. 
If  we  are  such,  it  is  not  fated 
You  are  for  him,  howe'er  belated 
The  time's  for  us. 


And  yet  is  not  the  time  gone  by  ? 

Your  garden  has  been  planted,  dear. 

And  mine  with  weeds  is  over-grown. 

Oh  yes!  'tis  only  late  July! 

We  can  replant,  ere  frosts  appear, 

Gather  the  blossoms  we  have  sown. 

And  I  have  preached  that  hearts  should  seize 

The  hour  that  brings  realities.  .  .  . 

Yes,  I  admit  it  all,  we  crush 
Under  our  feet  the  world's  contempt. 
But  when  I  raise  the  cup,  it's  blush 
Reveals  the  snake's  eyes,  there's  a  hush 
While  a  hand  writes  upon  the  wall: 
Life  cannot  be  re-made,  exempt 
From  life  that  has  been,  something's  gone 
Out  of  the  soil,  in  life  updrawn 
To  growths  that  vine,  and  tangle,  crawl, 
Withered  in  part,  or  gone  to  seed. 
Tis  not  the  same,  though  you  have  freed 
The  soil  from  what  was  grown.  .  .  . 
*  *  *  * 

[so] 


HEAVEN  IS  BUT  THE  HOUR 

Heaven  is  but  the  hour 

Of  the  planting  of  the  flower. 

But  heaven  is  the  blossom  to  be, 

Of  the  one  Reality. 

And  heaven  cannot  undo  the  once  sown  ground. 

But  heaven  is  love  in  the  pursuing, 

And  in  the  memory  of  having  found.  .  .  . 

The  rocks  in  the  river  make  light  and  sound 
And  show  that  the  waters  search  and  move. 
And  what  is  time  but  an  infinite  whole 
Revealed  by  the  breaks  in  thought,  desire? 
To  put  it  away  is  to  know  one's  soul. 
Love  is  music  unheard  and  fire 
Too  rare  for  eyes;  between  hurt  beats 
The  heart  detects  it,  sees  how  pure 
Its  essence  is,  through  heart  defeats. — 
You  are  the  silence  making  sure 
The  sound  with  which  it  has  to  cope, 
My  sorrow  and  as  well  my  hope. 


81 


VICTOR  RAFOLSKI  ON  ART 

You  dull  Goliaths  clothed  in  coats  of  blue, 
Strained  and  half  bursted  by  the  swell  of  flesh, 
Topped  by  Gorilla  heads.    You  Marmoset, 
Trained  scoundrel,  taught  to  question  and  ensnare, 
I  hate  you,  hate  your  laws  and  hate  your  courts. 
Hands  off,  give  me  a  chair,  now  let  me  be. 
I'll  tell  you  more  than  you  can  think  to  ask  me. 
I  love  this  woman,  but  what  is  love  to  you? 
What  is  it  to  your  laws  or  courts?    I  love  her. 
She  loves  me,  if  you'd  know.    I  entered  her  room — 
She  stood  before  me  naked,  shrank  a  little, 
Cried  out  a  little,  calmed  her  sudden  cry 
When  she  saw  amiable  passion  in  my  eyes — 
She  loves  me,  if  you'd  know.    I  saw  in  her  eyes 
More  in  those  moments  than  whole  hours  of  talk 
From  witness  stands  exculpate  could  make  clear 
My  innocence. 

But  if  I  did  a  crime 

My  excuse  is  hunger,  hunger  for  more  life. 
Oh  what  a  world,  where  beauty,  rapture,  love 
Are  walled  in  and  locked  up  like  coal  or  food 
And  only  may  he  had  by  purchasers 
From  whose  fat  fingers  slip  the  unheeded  gold. 

[82] 


VICTOR  RAFOLSKI  ON  ART 

Oh  what  a  world  where  beauty  lies  in  waste, 
While  power  and  freedom  skulk  with  famished  lips 
Too  tightly  pressed  for  curses. 

So  do  men, 

Save  for  the  thousandth  man,  deny  themselves 
And  live  in  meagreness  to  make  sure  a  life 
Of  meagreness  by  hearth  stones  long  since  stale; 
And  live  in  ways,  companionships  as  fixed 
As  the  geared  figures  of  the  Strassburg  clock. 
You  wonder  at  war?    Why  war  lets  loose  desires, 
Emotions  long  repressed.    Would  you  stop  war? 
Then  let  men  live.    The  moral  equivalent 
Of  war  is  freedom.    Art  does  not  suffice — 
Religion  is  not  life,  but  life  is  living. 
And  painted  cherries  to  the  hungry  thrush 
Is  art  to  life.    The  artist  lived  his  work. 
You  cannot  live  his  life  who  love  his  work. 
You  are  the  thrush  that  pecks  at  painted  cherries 
Who  hope  to  live  through  art.     Beer-soaked  Goliaths, 
The  story's  coming  of  her  nakedness 
Be  patient  for  a  time. 

All  this  I  learned 

While  painting  pictures  no  one  ever  bought, 
Till  hunger  drove  me  to  this  servile  work 
As  butler  in  her  father's  house,  with  time 
On  certain  days  to  walk  the  galleries 
And  look  at  pictures,  marbles.     For  I  saw 

[83] 


TOWARD  THE  GULF 

I  was  not  living  while  I  painted  pictures. 

I  was  not  living  working  for  a  crust, 

I  was  not  living  walking  galleries: 

All  this  was  but  vicarious  life  which  felt 

Through  gazing  at  the  thing  the  artist  made, 

In  memory  of  the  life  he  lived  himself: 

As  we  preserve  the  fragrance  of  a  flower 

By  drawing  off  its  essence  in  a  bottle, 

Where  color,  fluttering  leaves,  are  thrown  away 

To  get  the  inner  passion  of  the  flower 

Extracted  to  a  bottle  that  a  queen 

May  act  the  flower's  part. 

Say  what  you  will, 

Make  laws  to  strangle  life,  shout  from  your  pulpits, 
Your  desks  of  editors,  your  woolsack  benches 
Where  judges  sit,  that  this  dull  hypocrite, 
You  call  the  State,  has  fashioned  life  aright — 
The  secret  is  abroad,  from  eye  to  eye 
The  secret  passes  from  poor  eyes  that  wink 
In  boredom,  in  fatigue,  in  furious  strength 
Roped  down  or  barred,  that  what  the  human  heart 
Dreams  of  and  hopes  for  till  the  aspiring  flame 
Flaps  in  the  guttered  candle  and  goes  out, 
Is  love  for  body  and  for  spirit,  love 
To  satisfy  their  hunger.    Yet  what  is  it, 
This  earth,  this  life,  what  is  it  but  a  meadow 
Where  spirits  are  left  free  a  little  while 

[84] 


VICTOR  RAFOLSKI  ON  ART 

Within  a  little  space,  so  long  as  strength, 

Flesh,  blood  increases  to  the  day  of  use 

As  roasts  or  stews  wherewith  this  witless  beast, 

Society  may  feed  himself  and  keep 

His  olden  shape  and  power? 

Fools  go  crop 

The  herbs  they  turn  you  to,  and  starve  yourself 
For  what  you  want,  and  count  it  righteousness, 
No  less  you  covet  love.    Poor  shadows  sighing, 
Across  the  curtain  racing!    Mangled  souls 
Pecking  so  feebly  at  the  painted  cherries, 
Inhaling  from  a  bottle  what  was  lived 
These  summers  gone!    You  know,  and  scarce  deny 
That  what  we  men  desire  are  horses,  dogs, 
Loves,  women,  insurrections,  travel,  change, 
Thrill  in  the  wreck  and  rapture  for  the  change, 
And  re-adjusted  order. 

As  I  turned 

From  painting  and  from  art,  yet  found  myself 
Full  of  all  lusts  while  bound  to  menial  work 
Where  my  eyes  daily  rested  on  this  woman 
A  thought  came  to  me  like  a  little  spark 
One  sees  far  down  the  darkness  of  a  cave, 
Which  grows  into  a  flame,  a  blinding  light 
As  one  approaches  it,  so  did  this  thought 
Both  burn  and  blind  me:  For  I  loved  this  woman, 


TOWARD  THE  GULF 

I  wanted  her,  why  should  I  lose  this  woman? 

What  was  there  to  oppose  possession?    Will? 

Her  will,  you  say?    I  am  not  sure,  but  then 

Which  will  is  better,  mine  or  hers?    Which  will 

Deserves  achievement?    Which  has  rights  above 

The  other?    I  desire  her,  her  desire 

Is  not  toward  me,  which  of  these  two  desires 

Shall  triumph?    Why  not  mine  for  me  and  hers 

For  her,  at  least  the  stronger  must  prevail, 

And  wreck  itself  or  bend  all  else  before  it. 

That  millionaire  who  wooed  her,  tried  in  vain 

To  overwhelm  her  will  with  gold,  and  I 

With  passion,  boldness  would  have  overwhelmed  it, 

And  what's  the  difference? 

But  as  I  said 

I  walked  the  galleries.    When  I  stood  in  the  yard 
Bare  armed,  bare  throated  at  my  work,  she  came 
And  gazed  upon  me  from  her  window.    I 
Could  feel  the  exhausting  influence  of  her  eyes. 
Then  in  a  concentration  which  was  blindness 
To  all  else,  so  bewilderment  of  mind, 
I'd  go  to  see  Watteau's  Antiope 
Where  he  sketched  Zeus  in  hunger,  drawing  back 
The  veil  that  hid  her  sleeping  nakedness. 
There  was  Correggio's  too,  on  whom  a  satyr 
Smiled  for  his  amorous  wonder.    A  Semele, 
Done  by  an  unknown  hand,  a  thing  of  lightning 

[861 


VICTOR  RAFOLSKI  ON  ART 

Moved  through  by  Zeus  who  seized  her  as  the  flames 
Consumed  her  ravished  beauty. 

So  I  looked, 

And  trembled,  then  returned  perhaps  to  find 
Her  eyes  upon  me  conscious,  calm,  elate, 
And  radiate  with  lashes  of  surprise, 
Delight  as  when  a  star  is  still  but  shines. 
And  on  this  night  somehow  our  natures  worked 
To  climaxes.    For  first  she  dressed  for  dinner 
To  show  more  back  and  bosom  than  before. 
And  as  I  served  her,  her  down-looking  eyes 
Were  more  than  glances.    Then  she  dropped  her  napkin. 
Before  I  could  begin  to  bend  she  leaned 
And  let  me  see — oh  yes,  she  let  me  see 
The  white  foam  of  her  little  breasts  caressing 
The  scarlet  flame  of  silk,  a  swooning  shore 
Of  bright  carnations.    It  was  from  such  foam 
That  Venus  rose.    And  as  I  stooped  and  gave 
The  napkin  to  her  she  pushed  out  a  foot, 
And  then  I  coughed  for  breath  grown  short,  and  she 
Concealed  a  smile — and  you,  you  jailers  laugh 
Coarse-mouthed,  and  mock  my  hunger. 

I  go  on, 

Observe  how  courage,  boldness  mark  my  steps! 
At  nine  o'clock  she  climbs  to  her  boudoir. 
I  finding  errands  in  the  hallway  hear 


TOWARD  THE  GULF 

The  desultory  taking  up  of  books, 
And  through  her  open  door,  see  her  at  last 
Cast  off  her  dinner  gown  and  to  the  bath 
Step  like  a  ray  of  moonlight.    Then  she  snaps 
The  light  on  where  the  onyx  tub  and  walls 
Dazzle  the  air.    I  enter  then  her  room 
And  stand  against  the  closed  door,  do  not  pry 
Upon  her  in  the  bath.    Give  her  the  chance 
To  fly  me,  fight  me  standing  face  to  face. 
I  hear  her  flounder  in  the  water,  hear 
Hands  slap  and  slip  with  water  breast  and  arms; 
Hear  little  sighs  and  shudders  and  the  roughness 
Of  crash  towels  on  her  back,  when  in  a  minute 
She  stands  with  back  toward  me  in  the  doorway, 
A  sea-shell  glory,  pink  and  white  to  hair 
Sun-lit,  a  lily  crowned  with  powdered  gold. 
She  turned  toward  her  dresser  then  and  shook 
White  dust  of  talcum  on  her  arms,  and  looked 
So  lovingly  upon  her  tense  straight  breasts, 
Touching  them  under  with  soft  tapering  hands 
To  blue  eyes  deepening  like  a  brazier  flame 
Turned  by  a  sudden  gust.    Who  gives  her  these, 
The  thought  ran  through  me,  for  her  joy  alone 
And  not  for  mine? 

So  I  stood  there  like  Zeus 
Coming  in  thunder  to  Semele,  like 
The  diety  of  Watteau.    Correggio 

[88] 


VICTOR  RAFOLSKI  ON  ART 

Had  never  painted  me  a  satyr  there 
Drinking  her  beauty  in,  so  worshipful, 
My  will  subdued  in  worship  of  her  beauty 
To  obey  her  will. 

And  then  she  turned  and  saw  me, 
And  faced  me  in  her  nakedness,  nor  tried 
To  hide  it  from  me,  faced  me  immovable 
A  Mona  Lisa  smile  upon  her  lips. 
And  let  me  plead  my  cause,  make  known  my  love, 
Speak  out  my  torture,  wearing  still  the  smile. 
Let  me  approach  her  till  I  almost  touched 
The  whiteness  of  her  bosom.    Then  it  seemed 
That  smile  of  hers  not  wilting  me  she  clapped 
Hands  over  eyes  and  said:  "I  am  afraid — 
Oh  no,  it  cannot  be — what  would  they  say?" 
Then  rushing  in  the  bathroom,  quick  she  slammed 
The    door    and    shrieked:    "You    scoundrel,    go — you 

beast." 

My  dream  went  up  like  paper  charred  and  whirled 
Above  a  hearth.    Thrilling  I  stood  alone 
Amid  her  room  and  saw  my  life,  our  life 
Embodied  in  this  woman  lately  there 
Lying  and  cowardly.    And  as  I  turned 
To  leave  the  room,  her  father  and  the  gardener 
Pounced  on  me,  threw  me  down  a  flight  of  stairs 
And  turned  me  over,  stunned,  to  you  the  law 
Here  with  these  others  who  have  stolen  coal 


TOWARD  THE  GULF 

To  keep  them  warm,  as  I  have  stolen  beauty 
To  keep  from  freezing  in  this  arid  country 
Of  winter  winds  on  which  the  dust  of  custom 
Rides  like  a  fog. 

Now  do  your  worst  to  me! 


[90] 


THE  LANDSCAPE 

You  and  your  landscape!    There  it  lies 

Stripped,  resuming  its  disguise, 

Clothed  in  dreams,  made  bare  again, 

Symbol  infinite  of  pain, 

Rapture,  magic,  mystery 

Of  vanished  days  and  days  to  be. 

There's  its  sea  of  tidal  grass 

Over  which  the  south  winds  pass, 

And  the  sun-set's  Tuscan  gold 

Which  the  distant  windows  hold 

For  an  instant  like  a  sphere 

Bursting  ere  it  disappear. 

There's  the  dark  green  woods  which  throve 

In  the  spell  of  Leese's  Grove. 

And  the  winding  of  the  road; 

And  the  hill  o'er  which  the  sky 

Stretched  its  pallied  vacancy 

Ere  the  dawn  or  evening  glowed. 

And  the  wonder  of  the  town 

Somewhere  from  the  hill-top  down 

Nestling  under  hills  and  woods 

And  the  meadow's  solitudes. 


91 


TOWARD  THE  GULF 

And  your  paper  knight  of  old 
Secrets  of  the  landscape  told. 
And  the  hedge-rows  where  the  pond 
Took  the  blue  of  heavens  beyond 
The  hastening  clouds  of  gusty  March. 
There  you  saw  their  wrinkled  arch 
Where  the  East  wind  cracks  his  whips 
Round  the  little  pond  and  clips 
Main-sails  from  your  toppled  ships.  .  , 

Landscape  that  in  youth  you  knew 
Past  and  present,  earth  and  you! 
All  the  legends  and  the  tales 
Of  the  uplands,  of  the  vales; 
Sounds  of  cattle  and  the  cries 
Of  ploughmen  and  of  travelers 
Were  its  soul's  interpreters. 
And  here  the  lame  were  always  lame. 
Always  gray  the  gray  of  head. 
And  the  dead  were  always  dead 
Ere  the  landscape  had  become 
Your  cradle,  as  it  was  their  tomb. 


And  when  the  thunder  storms  would  waken 
Of  the  dream  your  soul  was  not  forsaken: 
In  the  room  where  the  dormer  windows  look — 
There  were  your  knight  and  the  tattered  book. 

[92] 


THE  LANDSCAPE 

With  colors  of  the  forest  green 

Gabled  roofs  and  the  demesne 

Of  faery  kingdoms  and  faery  time 

Storied  in  pre-natal  rhyme.  .  .  . 

Past  the  orchards,  in  the  plain 

The  cattle  fed  on  in  the  rain. 

And  the  storm-beaten  horseman  sped 

Rain  blinded  and  with  bended  head. 

And  John  the  ploughman  comes  and  goes 

In  labor  wet,  with  steaming  clothes. 

This  is  your  landscape,  but  you  see 

Not  terror  and  not  destiny 

Behind  its  loved,  maternal  face, 

Its  power  to  change,  or  fade,  replace 

Its  wonder  with  a  deeper  dream, 

Unfolding  to  a  vaster  theme. 

From  time  eternal  was  this  earth  ? 

No  less  this  landscape  with  your  birth 

Arose,  nor  leaves  you,  nor  decay 

Finds  till  the  twilight  of  your  day. 

It  bore  you,  moulds  you  to  its  plan. 

It  ends  with  you  as  it  began, 

But  bears  the  seed  of  future  years 

Of  higher  raptures,  dumber  tears. 


For  soon  you  lose  the  landscape  through 
Absence,  sorrow,  eyes  grown  true 

[93] 


TOWARD  THE  GULF 

To  the  naked  limbs  which  show 
Buds  that  never  more  may  blow. 
Now  you  know  the  lame  were  straight 
Ere  you  knew  them,  and  the  fate 
Of  the  old  is  yet  to  die. 
Now  you  know  the  dead  who  lie 
In  the  graves  you  saw  where  first 
The  landscape  on  your  vision  burst, 
Were  not  always  dead,  and  now 
Shadows  rest  upon  the  brow 
Of  the  souls  as  young  as  you. 
Some  are  gone,  though  years  are  few 
Since  you  roamed  with  them  the  hills. 
So  the  landscape  changes,  wills 
All  the  changes,  did  it  try 
Its  promises  to  justify?  .  .  . 


For  you  return  and  find  it  bare: 

There  is  no  heaven  of  golden  air. 

Your  eyes  around  the  horizon  rove, 

A  clump  of  trees  is  Leese's  Grove. 

And  what's  the  hedgerow,  what's  the  pond  ? 

A  wallow  where  the  vagabond 

Beast  will  not  drink,  and  where  the  arch 

Of  heaven  in  the  days  of  March 

Refrains  to  look.    A  blinding  rain 

Beats  the  once  gilded  window  pane. 

[94] 


THE  LANDSCAPE 

John,  the  poor  wretch,  is  gone,  but  bread 
Tempts  other  feet  that  path  to  tread 
Between  the  barn  and  house,  and  brave 
The  March  rain  and  the  winds  that  rave. 
O,  landscape  I  am  one  who  stands 
Returned  with  pale  and  broken  hands 
Glad  for  the  day  that  I  have  known, 
And  finds  the  deserted  doorway  strown 
With  shoulder  blade  and  'spinal  bone. 
And  you  who  nourished  me  and  bred 
I  find  the  spirit  from  you  fled. 
You  gave  me  dreams,  'twas  at  your  breast 
My  soul's  beginning  rose  and  pressed 
My  steps  afar  at  last  and  shaped 
A  world  elusive,  which  escaped 
Whatever  love  or  thought  could  find 
Beyond  the  tireless  wings  of  mind. 
Yet  grown  by  you,  and  feeding  on 
Your  strength  as  mother,  you  are  gone 
When  I  return  from  living,  trace 
My  steps  to  see  how  I  began, 
And  deeply  search  your  mother  face 
To  know  your  inner  self,  the  place 
For  which  you  bore  me,  sent  me  forth 
To  wander,  south  or  east  or  north.  .  .  . 
Now  the  familiar  landscape  lies 
With  breathless  breast  and  hollow  eyes. 
It  knows  me  not,  as  I  know  not 

[95] 


TOWARD  THE  GULF 

Its  secret,  spirit,  all  forgot 
Its  kindred  look  is,  as  I  stand 
A  stranger  in  an  unknown  land. 


Are  we  not  earth-born,  formed  of  dust 

Which  seeks  again  its  love  and  trust 

In  an  old  landscape,  after  change 

In  hearts  grown  weary,  wrecked  and  strange? 

What  though  we  struggled  to  emerge 

Dividual,  footed  for  the  urge 

Of  further  self-discoveries,  though 

In  the  mid-years  we  cease  to  know, 

Through  disenchanted  eyes,  the  spell 

That  clothed  it  like  a  miracle — 

Yet  at  the  last  our  steps  return 

Its  deeper  mysteries  to  learn. 

It  has  been  always  us,  it  must 

Clasp  to  itself  our  kindred  dust. 

We  cannot  free  ourselves  from  it. 

Near  or  afar  we  must  submit 

To  what  is  in  us,  what  was  grown 

Out  of  the  landscape's  soil,  the  known 

And  unknown  powers  of  soil  and  soul. 

As  bodies  yield  to  the  control 

Of  the  earth's  center,  and  so  bend 

In  age,  so  hearts  toward  the  end 

Bend  down  with  lips  so  long  athirst 

[96] 


THE  LANDSCAPE 

To  waters  which  were  known  at  first — 
The  little  spring  at  Leese's  Grove 
Was  your  first  love,  is  your  last  love! 


When  those  we  knew  in  youth  have  crept 
Under  the  landscape,  which  has  kept 
Nothing  we  saw  with  youthful  eyes; 
Ere  God  is  formed  in  the  empty  skies, 
I  wonder  not  our  steps  are  pressed 
Toward  the  mystery  of  their  rest. 
That  is  the  hope  at  bud  which  kneels 
Where  ancestors  the  tomb  conceals. 
Age  no  less  than  youth  would  lean 
Upon  some  love.    For  what  is  seen 
No  more  of  father,  mother,  friend, 
For  hands  of  flesh  lost,  eyes  grown  blind 
In  death,  a  something  which  assures, 
Comforts,  allays  our  fears,  endures. 
Just  as  the  landscape  and  our  home 
In  childhood  made  of  heaven's  dome, 
And  all  the  farthest  ways  of  earth 
A  place  as  sheltered  as  the  hearth. 


Is  it  not  written  at  the  last  day 

Heaven  and  earth  shall  roll  away? 

Yes,  as  my  landscape  passed  through  death, 

[9?] 


TOWARD  THE  GULF 

Lay  like  a  corpse,  and  with  new  breath 

Became  instinct  with  fire  and  light — 

So  shall  it  roll  up  in  my  sight, 

Pass  from  the  realm  of  finite  sense, 

Become  a  thing  of  spirit,  whence 

I  shall  pass  too,  its  child  in  faith 

Of  dreams  it  gave  me,  which  nor  death 

Nor  change  can  wreck,  but  still  reveal 

In  change  a  Something  vast,  more  real 

Than  sunsets,  meadows,  green-wood  trees, 

Or  even  faery  presences. 

A  Something  which  the  earth  and  air 

Transmutes  but  keeps  them  what  they  were; 

Clear  films  of  beauty  grown  more  thin 

As  we  approach  and  enter  in. 

Until  we  reach  the  scene  that  made 

Our  landscape  just  a  thing  of  shade. 


[98] 


TO-MORROW  IS  MY  BIRTHDAY 

Well,  then,  another  drink!    Ben  Jonson  knows, 
So  do  you,  Michael  Drayton,  that  to-morrow 
I  reach  my  fifty-second  year.    But  hark  ye, 
To-morrow  lacks  two  days  of  being  a  month — 
Here  is  a  secret — since  I  made  my  will. 
Heigh  ho!  that's  done  too!    I  wonder  why  I  did  it? 
That  I  should  make  a  will!    Yet  it  may  be 
That  then  and  jump  at  this  most  crescent  hour 
Heaven  inspired  the  deed. 

As  a  mad  younker 

I  knew  an  aged  man  in  Warwickshire 
Who  used  to  say,  "Ah,  mercy  me,"  for  sadness 
Of  change,  or  passing  time,  .or  secret  thoughts. 
If  it  was  spring  he  sighed  it,  if  'twas  fall, 
With  drifting  leaves,  he  looked  upon  the  rain 
And  with  doleful  suspiration  kept 
This  habit  of  his  grief.    And  on  a  time 
As  he  stood  looking  at  the  flying  clouds, 
I  loitering  near,  expectant,  heard  him  say  it, 
Inquired,  "Why  do  you  say  'Ah,  mercy  me,' 
Now  that  it's  April?"    So  he  hobbled  off 
And  left  me  empty  there. 

[99] 


TOWARD  THE  GULF 

Now  here  am  I ! 

Oh,  it  is  strange  to  find  myself  this  age, 
And  rustling  like  a  peascod,  though  unshelled, 
And,  like  this  aged  man  of  Warwickshire, 
Slaved  by  a  mood  which  must  have  breath — "Tra-la!" 
That's  what  I  say  instead  of  "  Ah,  mercy  me." 
For  look  you,  Ben,  I  catch  myself  with  "Tra-la" 
The  moment  I  break  sleep  to  see  the  day. 
At  work,  alone,  vexed,  laughing,  mad  or  glad 
I  say,  "Tra-la"  unknowing.    Oft  at  table 
I  say,  "Tra-la."    And  'tother  day,  poor  Anne 
Looked  long  at  me  and  said,  "You  say,  ' Tra-la ' 
Sometimes  when  you're  asleep;  why  do  you  so?" 
Then  I  bethought  me  of  that  aged  man 
Who  used  to  say,  "Ah,  mercy  me,"  but  answered: 
"Perhaps  I  am  so  happy  when  awake 
The  song  crops  out  in  slumber — who  can  say?  " 
And  Anne  arose,  began  to  keel  the  pot, 
But  was  she  answered,  Ben?    Who  know  a  woman? 

To-morrow  is  my  birthday.    If  I  die, 
Slip  out  of  this  with  Bacchus  for  a  guide, 
What  soul  would  interdict  the  poppied  way? 
Heroes  may  look  the  Monster  down,  a  child 
Can  wilt  a  lion,  who  is  cowed  to  see 
Such  bland  unreckoning  of  his  strength — but  I, 
Having  so  greatly  lived,  would  sink  away 
[100] 


TO-MORROW  IS  MY  :  BIRTHDAY 

Unknowing  my  departure.    I  have  died 
A  thousand  times,  and  with  a  valiant  soul 
Have  drunk  the  cup,  but  why?    In  such  a  death 
To-morrow  shines  and  there's  a  place  to  lean. 
But  in  this  death  that  has  no  bottom  to  it, 
No  bank  beyond,  no  place  to  step,  the  soul 
Grows  sick,  and  like  a  falling  dream  we  shrink 
From  that  inane  which  gulfs  us,  without  place 
For  us  to  stand  and  see  it. 


Yet,  dear  Ben, 

This  thing  must  be;  that's  what  we  live  to  know 
Out  of  lon'g  dreaming,  saying  that  we  know  it. 
As  yeasty  heroes  in  their  braggart  teens 
Spout  learnedly  of  war,  who  never  saw 
A  cannon  aimed.    You  drink  too  much  to-day, 
Or  get  a  scratch  while  turning  Lucy's  stile, 
And  like  a  beast  you  sicken.    Like  a  beast 
They  cart  you  off.    What  matter  if  your  thought 
Outsoared  the  Phoenix?    Like  a  beast  you  rot. 
Methinks  that  something  wants  our  flesh,  as  we 
Hunger  for  flesh  of  beasts.    But  still  to-morrow, 
To-morrow  and  to-morrow  and  to-morrow 
Creeps  in  this  petty  pace — O,  Michael  Drayton, 
Some  end  must  be.    But  'twixt  the  fear  of  ceasing 
And  weariness  of  going  on  we  lie 
Upon  these  thorns! 


TOWARD  THE  GULF 

These  several  springs  I  find 

No  new  birth  in  the  Spring.    And  yet  in  London 
I  used  to  cry,  "O,  would  I  were  in  Stratford; 
It's  April  and  the  larks  are  singing  now. 
The  flags  are  green  along  the  Avon  river; 
O,  would  I  were  a  rambler  in  the  fields. 
This  poor  machine  is  racing  to  its  wreck. 
This  grist  of  thought  is  endless,  this  old  sorrow 
Sprouts,  winds  and  crawls  in  London's  darkness. 

Come 

Back  to  your  landscape!    Peradventure  waits 
Some  woman  there  who  will  make  new  the  earth, 
And  crown  the  spring  with  fire." 

So  back  I  come. 

And  the  springs  march  before  me,  say,  "  Behold 
Here  are  we,  and  what  would  you,  can  you  use  us?" 
What  good  is  air  if  lungs  are  out,  or  springs 
When  the  mind's  flown  so  far  away  no  spring, 
Nor  loveliness  of  earth  can  call  it  back? 
I  tell  you  what  it  is:  in  early  youth 
The  life  is  in  the  loins;  by  thirty  years 
It  travels  through  the  stomach  to  the  lungs, 
And  then  we  strut  and  crow.    By  forty  years 
The  fruit  is  swelling  while  the  leaves  are  fresh. 
By  fifty  years  you're  ripe,  begin  to  rot. 
At  fifty-two,  or  fifty-five  or  sixty 
The  life  is  in  the  seed— what's  spring  to  you? 
[102] 


TO-MORROW  IS  MY  BIRTHDAY 

Puff!    Puff!    You  are  so  winged  and  light  you  fly. 

For  every  passing  zephyr,  are  blown  off, 

And  drifting,  God  knows  where,  cry  out  "tra-la," 

"Ah,  mercy  me,"  as  it  may  happen  you. 

Puff!    Puff!  away  you  go! 

Another  drink? 

Why,  you  may  drown  the  earth  with  ale  and  I 
Will  drain  it  like  a  sea.    The  more  I  drink 
The  better  I  see  that  this  is  April  time.  .  .  . 

Ben!    There  is  one  Voice  which  says  to  everything: 

"Dream  what  you  will,  I'll  make  you  bear  your  seed. 

And,  having  borne,  the  sickle  comes  among  ye 

And  takes  your  stalk."    The  rich  and  sappy  greens 

Of  spring  or  June  show  life  within  the  loins, 

And  all  the  world  is  fair,  for  now  the  plant 

Can  drink  the  level  cup  of  flame  where  heaven 

Is  poured  full  by  the  sun.    But  when  the  blossom 

Flutters  its  colors,  then  it  takes  the  cup 

And  waves  the  stalk  aside.    And  having  drunk 

The  stalk  to  penury,  then  slumber  comes 

With    dreams    of    spring    stored    in    the    imprisoned 

germ, 

An  old  life  and  a  new  life  all  in  one, 
A  thing  of  memory  and  of  prophecy, 
Of  reminiscence,  longing,  hope  and  fear. 
What  has  been  ours  is  taken,  what  was  ours 

[103] 


TOWARD  THE  GULF 

Becomes  entailed  on  our  seed  in  the  spring, 
Fees  in  possession  and  enjoyment  too.  .  .  . 

The  thing  is  sex,  Ben.    It  is  that  which  lives 

And  dies  in  us,  makes  April  and  unmakes, 

And  leaves  a  man  like  me  at  fifty-two, 

Finished  but  living,  on  the  pinnacle 

Betwixt  a  death  and  birth,  the  earth  consumed 

And  heaven  rolled  up  to  eyes  whose  troubled  glances 

Would  shape  again  to  something  better — what? 

Give  me  a  woman,  Ben,  and  I  will  pick 

Out  of  this  April,  by  this  larger  art 

Of  fifty-two,  such  songs  as  we  have  heard, 

Both  you  and  I,  when  weltering  in  the  clouds 

Of  that  eternity  which  comes  in  sleep, 

Or  in  the  viewless  spinning  of  the  soul 

When  most  intense.    The  woman  is  somewhere, 

And  that's  what  tortures,  when  I  think  this  field 

So  often  gleaned  could  blossom  once  again 

If  I  could  find  her. 

Well,  as  to  my  plays: 

I  have  not  written  out  what  I  would  write. 
They  have  a  thousand  buds  of  finer  flowering. 
And  over  "Hamlet"  hangs  a  teasing  spirit 
As  fine  to  that  as  sense  is  fine  to  flesh. 
Good  friends,  my  soul  beats  up  its  prisoned  wings 
Against  the  ceiling  of  a  vaster  whorl 

[104] 


TO-MORROW  IS  MY  BIRTHDAY 

And  would  break  through  and  enter.    But,  fair  friends, 

What  strength  in  place  of  sex  shall  steady  me? 

What  is  the  motive  of  this  higher  mount? 

What  process  in  the  making  of  myself— 

The  very  fire,  as  it  were,  of  my  growth — 

Shall  furnish  forth  these  writings  by  the  way, 

As  incident,  expression  of  the  nature 

Relumed  for  adding  branches,  twigs  and  leaves?  .  .  . 

Suppose  I'd  make  a  tragedy  of  this, 

Focus  my  fancied  "Dante"  to  this  theme, 

And  leave  my  halfwrit  "Sappho,"  which  at  best 

Is  just  another  delving  in  the  mine 

That  gave  me  "Cleopatra"  and  the  Sonnets? 

If  you  have  genius,  write  my  tragedy, 

And  call  it  "Shakespeare,  Gentleman  of  Stratford," 

Who  lost  his  soul  amid  a  thousand  souls, 

And  had  to  live  without  it,  yet  live  with  it 

As  wretched  as  the  souls  whose  lives  he  lived. 

Here  is  a  play  for  you:  Poor  William  Shakespeare, 

This  moment  growing  drunk,  the  famous  author 

Of  certain  sugared  sonnets  and  some  plays, 

With  this  machine  too  much  to  him,  which  started 

Some  years  ago,  now  cries  him  nay  and  runs 

Even  when  the  house  shakes  and  complains,  "I  fall, 

You  shake  me  down,  my  timbers  break  apart. 

Why,  if  an  engine  must  go  on  like  this 

The  building  should  be  stronger." 

[105] 


TOWARD  THE  GULF 

Or  to  mix, 

And  by  the  mixing,  unmix  metaphors, 
No  mortal  man  has  blood  enough  for  brains 
And  stomach  too,  when  the  brain  is  never  done 
With  thinking  and  creating. 

For  you  see, 

I  pluck  a  flower,  cut  off  a  dragon's  head — 
Choose  twixt  these  figures — lo,  a  dozen  buds, 
A  dozen  heads  out-crop.    For  every  fancy, 
Play,  sonnet,  what  you  will,  I  write  me  out 
With  thinking  "Now  I'm  done,"  a  hundred  others 
Crowd  up  for  voices,  and,  like  twins  unborn 
Kick  and  turn  o'er  for  entrance  to  the  world. 
And  I,  poor  fecund  creature,  who  would  rest, 
As  'twere  from  an  importunate  husband,  fly 
To  money-lending,  farming,  mulberry  trees, 
Enclosing  Welcombe  fields,  or  idling  hours 
In  common  talk  with  people  like  the  Combes. 
All  this  to  get  a  heartiness,  a  hold 
On  earth  again,  lest  Heaven  Hercules, 
Finding  me  strayed  to  mid-air,  kicking  heels 
Above  the  mountain  tops,  seize  on  my  scruff 
And  bear  me  off  or  strangle. 

Good,  my  friends, 

The  "Tempest"  is  as  nothing  to  the  voice 
That  calls  me  to  performance — what  I  know  not. 
[106! 


TO-MORROW  IS  MY  BIRTHDAY 

I've  planned  an  epic  of  the  Asian  wash 

Which  slopped  the  star  of  Athens  and  put  out, 

Which  should  all  history  analyze,  and  present 

A  thousand  notables  in  the  guise  of  life, 

And  show  the  ancient  world  and  worlds  to  come 

To  the  last  blade  of  thought  and  tiniest  seed 

Of  growth  to  be.    With  visions  such  as  these 

My  spirit  turns  in  restless  ecstacy, 

And  this  enslaved  brain  is  master  sponge, 

And  sucks  the  blood  of  body,  hands  and  feet. 

While  my  poor  spirit,  like  a  butterfly 

Gummed  in  its  shell,  beats  its  bedraggled  wings, 

And  cannot  rise. 

I'm  cold,  both  hands  and  feet. 
These  three  days  past  I  have  been  cold,  this  hour 
I  am  warm  in  three  days.    God  bless  the  ale. 
God  did  do  well  to  give  us  anodynes.  .  .  . 
So  now  you  know  why  I  am  much  alone, 
And  cannot  fellow  with  Augustine  Phillips, 
John  Heminge,  Richard  Burbage,  Henry  Condell, 
And  do  not  have  them  here,  dear  ancient  friends, 
Who  grieve,  no  doubt,  and  wonder  for  changed  love. 
Love  is  not  love  which  alters  when  it  finds 
A  change  of  heart,  but  mine  has  changed  not,  only 
I  cannot  be  my  old  self.    I  blaspheme: 
I  hunger  for  broiled  fish,  but  fly  the  touch 
Of  hands  of  flesh. 

[107] 


TOWARD  THE  GULF 

I  am  most  passionate, 
And  long  am  used  perplexities  of  love 
To  bemoan  and  to  bewail.    And  do  you  wonder, 
Seeing  what  I  am,  what  my  fate  has  been  ? 
Well,  hark  you;  Anne  is  sixty  now,  and  I, 
A  crater  which  erupts,  look  where  she  stands 
In  lava  wrinkles,  eight  years  older  than  I  am, 
As  years  go,  but  I  am  a  youth  afire 
While  she  is  lean  and  slippered.    It's  a  Fury 
Which  takes  me  sometimes,  makes  my  hands  clutch  out 
For  virgins  in  their  teens.    O  sullen  fancy! 
I  want  them  not,  I  want  the  love  which  springs 
Like  flame  which  blots  the  sun,  where  fuel  of  body 
Is  piled  in  reckless  generosity.  .  .  . 
You  are  most  learned,  Ben,  Greek  and  Latin  know, 
And  think  me  nature's  child,  scarce  understand 
How  much  of  physic,  law,  and  ancient  annals 
I  have  stored  up  by  means  of  studious  zeal. 
But  pass  this  by,  and  for  the  braggart  breath 
Ensuing  now  say,  "Will  was  in  his  cups, 
Potvaliant,  boozed,  corned,  squiffy,  obfuscated, 
Crapulous,  inter  pocula,  or  so  forth. 
Good  sir,  or  so,  or  friend,  or  gentleman, 
According  to  the  phrase  or  the  addition 
Of  man  and  country,  on  my  honor,  Shakespeare 
At  Stratford,  on  the  twenty-second  of  April, 
Year  sixteen-sixteen  of  our  Lord  was  merry— 
Videlicet,  was  drunk."    Well,  where  was  I? — 
[108] 


TO-MORROW  IS  MY  BIRTHDAY 

Oh  yes,  at  braggart  breath,  and  now  to  say  it: 

I  believe  and  say  it  as  I  would  lightly  speak 

Of  the  most  common  thing  to  sense,  outside 

Myself  to  touch  or  analyze,  this  mind 

Which  has  been  used  by  Something,  as  I  use 

A  quill  for  writing,  never  in  this  world 

In  the  most  high  and  palmy  days  of  Greece, 

Or  in  this  roaring  age,  has  known  its  peer. 

No  soul  as  mine  has  lived,  felt,  suffered,  dreamed, 

Broke  open  spirit  secrets,  followed  trails 

Of  passions  curious,  countless  lives  explored 

As  I  have  done.    And  what  are  Greek  and  Latin, 

The  lore  of  Aristotle,  Plato  to  this  ? 

Since  I  know  them  by  what  I  am,  the  essence 

From  which  their  utterance  came,  myself  a  flower 

Of  every  graft  and  being  in  myself 

The  recapitulation  and  the  complex 

Of  all  the  great.    Were  not  brains  before  books? 

And  even  geometries  in  some  brain 

Before  old  Gutenberg?    0  fie,  Ben  Jonson, 

If  I  am  nature's  child  am  I  not  all? 

Howe'er  it  be,  ascribe  this  to  the  ale, 

And  say  that  reason  in  me  was  a  fume. 

But  if  you  honor  me,  as  you  have  said, 

As  much  as  any,  this  side  idolatry, 

Think,  Ben,  of  this:  That  I,  whatever  I  be 

In  your  regard,  have  come  to  fifty-two, 

Defeated  in  my  love,  who  knew  too  well 

[109] 


TOWARD  THE  GULF 

That  poets  through  the  love  of  women  turn 
To  satyrs  or  to  gods,  even  as  women 
By  the  first  touch  of  passion  bloom  or  rot 
As  angels  or  as  bawds. 

Bethink  you  also 

How  I  have  felt,  seen,  known  the  mystic  process 
Working  in  man's  soul  from  the  woman  soul 
As  part  thereof  in  essence,  spirit  and  flesh, 
Even  as  a  malady  may  be,  while  this  thing 
Is  health  and  growth,  and  growing  draws  all  life, 
All  goodness,  wisdom  for  its  nutriment. 
Till  it  become  a  vision  paradisic, 
And  a  ladder  of  fire  for  climbing,  from  its  topmost 
Rung  a  place  for  stepping  into  heaven.  .  .  . 

This  I  have  know,  but  had  not.    Nor  have  I 
Stood  coolly  off  and  seen  the  woman,  used 
Her  blood  upon  my  palette.    No,  but  heaven 
Commanded  my  strength's  use  to  abort  and  slay 
What  grew  within  me,  while  I  saw  the  blood 
Of  love  untimely  ripped,  as  'twere  a  child 
Killed  i'  the  womb,  a  harpy  or  an  angel 
With  my  own  blood  stained. 

As  a  virgin  shamed 

By  the  swelling  life  unlicensed  needles  it, 
But  empties  not  her  womb  of  some  last  shred 
Of  flesh  which  fouls  the  alleys  of  her  body, 

[no] 


TO-MORROW  IS  MY  BIRTHDAY 

And  fills  her  wholesome  nerves  with  poisoned  sleep, 

And  weakness  to  the  last  of  life,  so  I 

For  some  shame  not  unlike,  some  need  of  life 

To  rid  me  of  this  life  I  had  conceived 

Did  up  and  choke  it  too,  and  thence  begot 

A  fever  and  a  fixed  debility 

For  killing  that  begot. 

Now  you  see  that  I 

Have  not  grown  from  a  central  dream,  but  grown 
Despite  a  wound,  and  over  the  wound  and  used 
My  flesh  to  heal  my  flesh.    My  love's  a  fever 
Which  longed  for  that  which  nursed  the  malady, 
And  fed  on  that  which  still  preserved  the  ill, 
The  uncertain,  sickly  appetite  to  please. 
My  reason,  the  physician  to  my  love, 
Angry  that  his  prescriptions  are  not  kept 
Has  left  me.    And  as  reason  is  past  care 
I  am  past  cure,  with  ever  more  unrest 
Made  frantic-mad,  my  thoughts  as  madmen's  are, 
And  my  discourse  at  random  from  the  truth, 
Not  knowing  what  she  is,  who  swore  her  fair 
And  thought  her  bright,  who  is  as  black  as  hell 
And  dark  as  night. 

But  list,  good  gentlemen, 
This  love  I  speak  of  is  not  as  a  cloak 
Which  one  may  put  away  to  wear  a  coat, 
And  doff  that  for  a  jacket,  like  the  loves 

[mi 


TOWARD  THE  GULF 

We  men  are  wont  to  have  as  loves  or  wives. 
She  is  the  very  one,  the  soul  of  souls, 
And  when  you  put  her  on  you  put  on  light, 
Or  wear  the  robe  of  Nessus,  poisonous  fire, 
Which  if  you  tear  away  you  tear  your  life, 
And  if  you  wear  you  fall  to  ashes.    So 
'Tis  not  her  bed-vow  broke,  I  have  broke  mine, 
That  ruins  me;  'tis  honest  faith  quite  lost, 
And  broken  hope  that  we  could  find  each  other, 
And  that  mean  more  to  me  and  less  to  her. 
'Tis  that  she  could  take  all  of  me  and  leave  me 
Without  a  sense  of  loss,  without  a  tear, 
And  make  me  fool  and  perjured  for  the  oath 
That  swore  her  fair  and  true.    I  feel  myself 
As  like  a  virgin  who  her  body  gives 
For  love  of  one  whose  love  she  dreams  is  hers, 
But  wakes  to  find  herself  a  toy  of  blood, 
And  dupe  of  prodigal  breath,  abandoned  quite 
For  other  conquests.    For  I  gave  myself, 
And  shrink  for  thought  thereof,  and  for  the  loss 
Of  myself  never  to  myself  restored. 
The  urtication  of  this  shame  made  plays 
And  sonnets,  as  you'll  find  behind  all  deeds 
That  mount  to  greatness,  anger,  hate,  disgust, 
But,  better,  love. 

To  hell  with  punks  and  wenches, 
Drabs,  mopsies,  doxies,  minxes,  trulls  and  queans, 

[112] 


TO-MORROW  IS  MY     BIRTHDAY 

Rips,  harridans  and  strumpets,  pieces,  jades. 
And  likewise  to  the  eternal  bonfire  lechers, 
All  rakehells,  satyrs,  goats  and  placket  fumblers, 
Gibs,  breakers-in-at-catch-doors,  thunder  tubes. 
I  think  I  have  a  fever — hell  and  furies! 
Or  else  this  ale  grows  hotter  i'  the  mouth. 
Ben,  if  I  die  before  you,  let  me  waste 
Richly  and  freely  in  the  good  brown  earth, 
Untrumpeted  and  by  no  bust  marked  out. 
What  good,  Ben  Jonson,  if  the  world  could  see 
What  face  was  mine,  who  wrote  these  plays  and  son 
nets  ? 

Life,  you  have  hurt  me.    Since  Death  has  a  veil 
I  take  the  veil  and  hide,  and  like  great  Caesar 
Who  drew  his  toga  round  him,  I  depart. 

Good  friends,  let's  to  the  fields — I  have  a  fever. 

After  a  little  walk,  and  by  your  pardon, 

I  think  I'll  sleep.    There  is  no  sweeter  thing, 

Nor  fate  more  blessed  than  to  sleep.    Here,  world, 

I  pass  you  like  an  orange  to  a  child: 

I  can  no  more  with  you.    Do  what  you  will. 

What  should  my  care  be  when  I  have  no  power 

To  save,  guide,  mould  you?    Naughty  world  you  need 

me 

As  little  as  I  need  you:  go  your  way! 
Tyrants  shall  rise  and  slaughter  fill  the  earth, 
But  1  shall  sleep.    In  wars  and  wars  and  wars 

[113] 


TOWARD  THE  GULF 

The  ever-replenished  youth  of  earth  shall  shriek 
And  clap  their  gushing  wounds — but  I  shall  sleep, 
Nor  earthy  thunder  wake  me  when  the  cannon 
Shall  shake  the  throne  of  Tartarus.    Orators 
Shall  fulmine  over  London  or  America 
Of  rights  eternal,  parchments,  sacred  charters 
And  cut  each  others'  throats  when  reason  fails — 
But  I  shall  sleep.    This  globe  may  last  and  breed 
The  race  of  men  till  Time  cries  out  "How  long?" 
But  I  shall  sleep  ten  thousand  thousand  years. 
I  am  a  dream,  Ben,  out  of  a  blessed  sleep — 
Let's  walk  and  hear  the  lark. 


SWEET  CLOVER 

Only  a  few  plants  up — and  not  a  blossom 
My  clover  didn't  catch.    What  is  the  matter? 
Old  John  comes  by.    I  show  him  my  result. 
Look,  John!    My  clover  patch  is  just  a  failure, 
I  wanted  you  to  sow  it.    Now  you  see 
What  comes  of  letting  Hunter  do  your  work. 
The  ground  was  not  plowed  right,  or  disced  perhaps, 
Or  harrowed  fine  enough,  or  too  little  seed 
Was  sown. 

But  John,  who  knows  a  clover  field, 
Pulls  up  a  plant  and  cleans  the  roots  of  soil 
And  studies  them. 

He  says,  Look  at  the  roots! 
Hunter  neglected  to  inoculate 
The  seed,  for  clover  seed  must  always  have 
Clover  bacteria  to  make  it  grow, 
And  blossom.    In  a  thrifty  field  of  clover 
The  roots  are  studded  thick  with  tubercles, 
Like  little  warts,  made  by  bacteria. 
And  somehow  these  bacteria  lay  hold 
Upon  the  nitrogen  that  fills  the  soil, 
And  make  the  plants  grow,  make  them  blossom  too. 


TOWARD  THE  GULF 

When  Hunter  sowed  this  field  he  was  not  well: 
He  should  have  hauled  some  top-soil  to  this  field 
From  some  old  clover  field,  or  made  a  culture 
Of  these  bacteria  and  soaked  the  seed 
In  it  before  he  sowed  it. 

As  I  said, 

Hunter  was  sick  when  he  was  working  here. 
And  then  he  ran  away  to  Indiana 
And  left  his  wife  and  children.    Now  he's  back. 
His  cough  was  just  as  bad  in  Indiana 
As  it  is  here.    A  cough  is  pretty  hard 
To  run  away  from.    Wife  and  children  too 
Are  pretty  hard  to  leave,  since  thought  of  them 
Stays  with  a  fellow  and  cannot  be  left. 
Yes,  Hunter's  back,  but  he  can't  work  for  you. 
He's  straightening  out  his  little  farm  and  making 
Provision  for  his  family.    Hunter's  changed. 
He  is  a  better  man.    It  almost  seems 
That  Hunter's  blossomed.  .  .  . 

I  am  sorry  for  him, 
The  doctor  says  he  has  tuberculosis. 


116 


SOMETHING  BEYOND  THE  HILL 

To  a  western  breeze 
A  row  of  golden  tulips  is  nodding. 
They  flutter  their  golden  wings 
In  a  sudden  ecstacy  and  say: 
Something  comes  to  us  from  beyond, 
Out  of  the  sky,  beyond  the  hill 
We  give  it  to  you. 


And  I  walk  through  rows  of  jonquils 

To  a  beloved  door, 

Which  you  open. 

And  you  stand  with  the  priceless  gold  of  your  tulip  head 

Nodding  to  me,  and  saying: 

Something  comes  to  me 

Out  of  the  mystery  of  Eternal  Beauty — 

I  give  it  to  you. 


There  is  the  morning  wonder  of  hyacinth  in  your  eyes, 
And  the  freshness  of  June  iris  in  your  hands, 
And  the  rapture  of  gardenias  in  your  bosom. 
But  your  voice  is  the  voice  of  the  robin 
Singing  at  dawn  amid  new  leaves. 

[117] 


TOWARD  THE  GULF 

It  is  like  sun-light  on  blue  water 

Where  the  south-wind  is  on  the  water 

And  the  buds  of  the  flags  are  green. 

It  is  like  the  wild  bird  of  the  sedges 

With  fluttering  wings  on  a  wind-blown  reed 

Showering  lyrics  over  the  sun-light 

Between  rhythmical  pauses 

When  his  heart  has  stopped, 

Making  light  and  water 

Into  song. 


Let  me  hear  your  voice, 

And  the  voice  of  Eternal  Beauty 

Through  the  music  of  your  voice. 

Let  me  gather  the  iris  of  your  hands. 

Against  my  face. 

And  close  my  eyes  with  your  eyes. 

Let  me  listen  with  you 

For  the  Voice. 


[118 


FRONT  THE  AGES  WITH  A  SMILE 

How  did  the  sculptor,  Voltaire,  keep  you  quiet  and 

posed 
In  an  arm  chair,  just  think,  at  your  busiest  age  we  are 

told, 
Being  better  than  seventy?     How  did  he  manage  to 

stay  you 
From  hopping  through  Europe  for  long  enough  time  for 

his  work, 
Which  shows  you  in  marble,  the  look  and  the  smile  and 

the  nose, 

The  filleted  brow  very  bald,  the  thin  little  hands, 
The  posture  pontifical,   face  imperturbable,   smile   so 

serene. 

How  did  the  sculptor  detain  you,  you  ever  so  restless, 
You  ever  so  driven  by  princes  and  priests  ?    So  I  stand 

here 

Enwrapped  of  this  face  of  you,  frail  little  frame  of  you, 
And  think  of  your  work — how  nothing  could  balk  you 
Or  quench  you  or  damp  you.     How  you  twisted  and 

turned, 
Emerged  from  the  fingers  of  malice,  emerged  with  a 

laugh, 

Kept  Europe  in  laughter,  in  turmoil,  in  fear 
For  your  eighty-four  years! 

[1191 


TOWARD  THE  GULF 

And  they  say  of  you  still 
You  were  light  and  a  mocker!    You  should  have  been 

solemn, 

And  argued  with  monkeys  and  swine,  speaking  truth 
fully  always. 
Nay,  truthful  with  whom,  to  what  end  ?    With  a  breed 

such  as  lived 

In  your  day  and  your  place?  It  was  never  their  due! 
Truth  for  the  truthful  and  true,  and  a  lie  for  the  liar  if 

need  be— 
A  board  out  of  plumb  for  a  place  out  of  plumb,  for  the 

hypocrite  flashes 
Of  lightning  or  rods  red  hot  for  thrusting  in  tortuous 

places. 
Well,  this  was  your  way,  you  lived  out  the  genius  God 

gave  you. 

And  they  hated  you  for  it,  hunted  you  all  over  Europe — 
Why  should  they  not  hate  you?  Why  should  you  not 

follow  your  light  ? 
But  wherever  they  drove  you,  you  climbed  to  a  place 

more  satiric. 
Did  France  bar  her  door?     Geneva  remained — good 

enough ! 

Les  Delices  close  to  some  several  cantons,  you  know. 
Would  they  lay  hands  upon  you  ?  I  fancy  you  laughing, 
You  stand  at  your  door  and  step  into  Vaud  by  one 

path; 
You  stand  at  your  door  and  step  by  another  to  France — 

[120] 


FRONT  THE  AGES  WITH  A  SMILE 

Such  safe  jurisdictions,  in  truth,  as  the  Illinois  rowdies 
Step  from  county  to  county  ahead  of  the  frustrate 

policeman. 
And  here  you  have  printers  to  print  what  you  write  and 

a  house 

For  the  acting  of  plays,  La  Pucelle,  Orphelin. 
O  busy  Voltaire,  never  resting.  .  .  . 

So   England   conservative,   England   of  Southey   and 

Burke, 
The  fox-hunting  squires,  the  England  of  Church  and  of 

State, 
The  England  half  mule  and  half  ox,  writes  you  down, 

O  Voltaire: 
The  quack  grass  of  popery  flourished  in  France,  you 

essayed 

To  plow  up  the  tangle,  and  harrow  the  roots  from  the  soil. 
It  took  a  good  ploughman  to  plow  it,  a  ploughman  of 

laughter, 
A  ploughman  who  laughed  when  the  plow  struck  the 

roots,  and  your  breast 
Was  thrown  on  the  handles. 

And  yet  to  this  day,  O  Voltaire, 
They  charge  you  with  levity,  scoffing,  when  all  that  you 

did 
Was  to  plough  up  the  quack  grass,  and  turn  up  the 

roots  to  the  sun, 

[121] 


TOWARD  THE  GULF 

And  let  the  sun  kill  them.     For  laughter  is  sun-light, 
And  nothing  of  worth  or  of  truth  needs  to  fear  it. 

But  listen 
The  strength  of  a  nation  is  mind,  I  will  grant  you,  and 

still 
But  give  it  a  tongue  read  and  spoken  more  greatly  than 

others, 
That  nation  can  judge  true  or  false  and  the  judgment 

abides. 
The  judgment  in  English  condemns  you,  where  is  there 

a  judgment 

To  save  you  from  this?    Is  it  German,  or  Russian,  or 
French? 

Did  you  give  up  three  years  of  your  life 

To  wipe  out  the  sentence  that  burned  the  wracked  body 
ofCalas? 

Did  you  help  the  oppressed  Montbailli  and  Lally,  O 
well, 

Six  lines  in  an  article  written  in  English  are  plenty 

To  weigh  what  you  did,  put  it  by  with  a  generous 
gesture, 

Give  the  minds  of  the  student  your  measure,  impress 
them 

Forever  that  all  of  this  sacrifice,  service  was  noble, 

But  done  with  mixed  motives,  the  fruits  of  your  meddle 
some  nature, 

[122] 


FRONT  THE  AGES  WITH  A  SMILE 

Your  hatred  of  churches  and  priests.     Six  lines  are  the 

record 
Of  all  of  these  years  of  hard  plowing  in  quack-grass, 

while  batting 
At  poisonous  flies  and  stepping  on  poisonous  snakes.  .  . 

How  well  did  you  know  that  life  to  a  genius,  a  god, 
Is  naught  but  a  farce !  How  well  did  you  look  with  those 

eyes 

As  black  as  a  beetle's  through  all  the  ridiculous  show^. 
Ridiculous  war,  and  ridiculous  strife,  and   ridiculous 

pomp. 

Ridiculous  dignity,  riches,  rituals,  reasons  and  creeds. 
Ridiculous  guesses  at  what  the  great  Silence  is  saying. 
Ridiculous  systems  wound  over  the  earth  like  a  snake 
Devouring  the  children  of  Fear!  Ridiculous  customs, 
Ridiculous  judgments  and  laws,  philosophies,  worships. 
You  saw  through  and  laughed  at — you  saw  above  all 
That  a  soul  must  make  end  with  a  groan,  or  a  curse,  or  ny 

laugh. 

So  you  smiled  till  the  lines  of  your  mouth 
A  crescent  became  with  dimples  for  horns,  so  expressing 
To  centuries  after  who  see  you  in  marble:  Behold  me, 
I  lived,  I  loved,  I  laughed,  I  toiled  without  ceasing 
Through  eighty-four  years  for  realities — O  let  them  pass, 
Let  life  go  by.  Would  you  rise  over  death  like  a  god? 
Front  the  ages  with  a  smile! 


[123 


POOR  PIERROT 

Here  far  away  from  the  city,  here  by  the  yellow  dunes 
I  will  lie  and  soothe  my  heart  where  the  sea  croons. 
For  what  can  I  do  with  strife,  or  what  can  I  do  with 

hate? 
Or  the  city,  or  life,  or  fame,  or  love  or  fate  ? 

Or  the  struggle  since  time  began  of  the  rich  and  poor? 
Or  the  law  that  drives  the  weak  from  the  temple's  door? 
Bury  me  under  the  sand  so  that  my  sorrow  shall  lie 
Hidden  under  the  dunes  from  the  world's  eye. 

I  have  learned  the  secret  of  silence,  silence  long  and 

deep: 

The  dead  knew  all  that  I  know,  that  is  why  they  sleep. 
They  could  do  nothing  with  fate,  or  love,  or  fame,  or 

strife — 
When  life  fills  full  the  soul  then  life  kills  life. 

I  would  glide  under  the  earth  as  a  shadow  over  a  dune, 
Into  the  soul  of  silence,  under  the  sun  and  moon. 
And  forever  as  long  as  the  world  stands  or  the  stars  flee 
Be  one  with  the  sands  of  the  shore  and  one  with  the  sea. 


[124] 


MIRAGE  OF  THE  DESERT 

Well,  there's  the  brazier  set  by  the  temple  door: 
Blue  flames  run  over  the  coals  and  flicker  through. 
There  are  cool  spaces  of  sky  between  white  clouds — 
But  what  are  flames  and  spaces  but  eyes  of  blue? 


And  there's  the  harp  on  which  great  fingers  play 
Of  gods  who  touch  the  wires,  dreaming  infinite  things: 
And  there's  a  soul  that  wanders  out  when  called 
By  a  voice  afar  from  the  answering  strings. 


And  there's  the  wish  of  the  deep  fulfillment  of  tears, 
Till  the  vision,  the  mad  music  are  wept  away. 
One  cannot  have  them  and  live,  but  if  one  die 
It  might  be  better  than  living — who  can  say? 


Why  do  we  thirst  for  urns  beyond  urns  who  know 
How  sweet  they  are,  yet  bitter,  not  enough  ? 
Eternity  will  quench  your  thirst,  O  soul — 
But  never  the  Desert's  spectre,  cup  of  love! 


125 


DAHLIAS 

The  mad  wind  is  the  warden, 
And  the  smiling  dahlias  nod 
To  the  dahlias  across  the  garden, 
And  the  wastes  of  the  golden  rod. 

They  never  pray  for  pardon, 
Nor  ask  his  way  nor  forego, 
Nor  close  their  hearts  nor  harden 
Nor  stay  his  hand,  nor  bestow 

Their  hearts  filched  out  of  their  bosoms, 
Nor  plan  for  dahlias  to  be. 
For  the  wind  blows  over  the  garden 
And  sets  the  dahlias  free. 

They  drift  to  the  song  of  the  warden, 
Heedless  they  give  him  heed. 
And  he  walks  and  blows  through  the  garden 
Blossom  and  leaf  and  seed. 


THE  GRAND  RIVER  MARSHES 

Silvers  and  purples  breathing  in  a  sky 
Of  fiery  mid-days,  like  a  watching  tiger, 
Of  the  restrained  but  passionate  July 
Upon  the  marshes  of  the  river  lie, 
Like  the  filmed  pinions  of  the  dragon  fly. 


A  whole  horizon's  waste  of  rushes  bend 
Under  the  flapping  of  the  breeze's  wing, 
Departing  and  revisiting 
The  haunts  of  the  river  twisting  without  end. 


The  torsions  of  the  river  make  long  miles 

Of  the  waters  of  the  river  which  remain 

Coiled  by  the  village,  tortuous  aisles 

Of  water  between  the  rushes,  which  restrain 

The  bewildered  currents  in  returning  files, 

Twisting  between  the  greens  like  a  blue  racer, 

Too  hurt  to  leap  with  body  or  uplift 

Its  head  while  gliding,  neither  slow  nor  swift 


127] 


TOWARD  THE  GULF 

Against  the  shaggy  yellows  of  the  dunes 

The  iron  bridge's  reticules 

Are     seen     by     fishermen     from    the     Damascened 

lagoons. 

But  from  the  bridge,  watching  the  little  steamer 
Paddling  against  the  current  up  to  Eastmanville, 
The  river  loosened  from  the  abandoned  spools 
Of  earth  and  heaven  wanders  without  will, 
Between  the  rushes,  like  a  silken  streamer. 
And  two  old  men  who  turn  the  bridge 
For  passing  boats  sit  in  the  sun  all  day, 
Toothless  and  sleepy,  ancient  river  dogs, 
And  smoke  and  talk  of  a  glory  passed  away. 
And  of  the  ruthless  sacrilege 
Which  mowed  away  the  pines, 
And  cast  them  in  the  current  here  as  logs, 
To  be  devoured  by  the  mills  to  the  last  sliver, 
Making  for  a  little  hour  heroes  and  heroines, 
Dancing  and  laughter  at  Grand  Haven, 
When  the  great  saws  sent  screeches  up  and  whines, 
And  cries  for  more  and  more 
Slaughter  of  forests  up  and  down  the  river 
And  along  the  lake's  shore. 


But  all  is  quiet  on  the  river  now 

As  when  the  snow  lay  windless  in  the  wood, 

And  the  last  Indian  stood 


THE  GRAND  RIVER  MARSHES 

And  looked  to  find  the  broken  bough 

That  told  the  path  under  the  snow. 

All  is  as  silent  as  the  spiral  lights 

Of  purple  and  of  gold  that  from  the  marshes  rise, 

Like  the  wings  of  swarming  dragon  flies, 

Far  up  toward  Eastmanville,  where  the  enclosing  skies 

Quiver  with  heat;  as  silent  as  the  flights 

Of  the  crow  like  smoke  from  shops  against  the  glare 

Of  dunes  and  purple  air, 

There  where  Grand  Haven  against  the  sand  hill  lies. 


The  forests  and  the  mills  are  gone! 

All  is  as  silent  as  the  voice  I  heard 

On  a  summer  dawn 

When  we  two  fished  among  the  river  reeds. 

As  silent  as  the  pain 

In  a  heart  that  feeds 

A  sorrow,  but  does  not  complain. 

As  silent  as  above  the  bridge  in  this  July, 

Noiseless,  far  up  in  this  mirror-lighted  sky 

Wheels  aimlessly  a  hydroplane: 

A  man-bestridden  dragon  fly! 


129] 


DELILAH 


Because  thou  wast  most  delicate, 
A  woman  fair  for  men  to  see, 

The  earth  did  compass  thy  estate, 
Thou  didst  hold  life  and  death  in  fee, 
And  every  soul  did  bend  the  knee. 

Much  pleasure  also  made  thee  grieve 
For  that  the  goblet  had  been  drained. 

The  well  spiced  viand  thou  didst  leave 
To  frown  on  want  whose  throat  was 

strained, 
And  violence  whose  hands  were  stained. 

The  purple  of  thy  royal  cloak, 
Made  the  sea  paler  for  its  hue. 

Much  people  bent  beneath  the  yoke 
To  fetch  thee  jewels  white  and  blue, 
And  rings  to  pass  thy  gold  hair  through. 

Therefore,  Delilah  wast  thou  called, 

Because  the  choice  wines  nourished  thee 

In  Sorek,  by  the  mountains  walled 
Against  the  north  wind's  misery, 
Where  flourished  every  pleasant  tree. 
[  130] 


(Wherein  the 
corrupt  spirit 
of  privilege  is 
symbolized 
by  Delilah 
and  the  Peo 
ple  by  Sam 
son.) 


DELILAH 

Thy  lovers  also  were  as  great 

In  numbers  as  the  sea  sands  were; 

Thou  didst  requite  their  love  with  hate; 
And  give  them  up  to  massacre, 


(Delilah  hath 
a  taste  for 
ease  and  lux 
ury  and  wan- 
toneth  with 
divers  lovers.) 


Who  brought  thee  gifts  of  gold  and  myrrh. 


At  Gaza  and  at  Ashkelon, 

The  obscene  Dagon  worshipping, 

Thy  face  was  fair  to  look  upon. 

Yet  thy  tongue,  sweet  to  talk  or  sing, 
Was  deadlier  than  the  adder's  sting. 

Wherefore,  thou  saidst:  "I  will  procure 
The  strong  man  Samson  for  my  spouse, 

His  death  will  make  my  ease  secure. 
The  god  has  heard  this  people's  vows 
To  recompense  their  injured  house." 


(Delilah   con- 
ceiveth     the 
design  of  en 
snaring  Sam 
son.) 


Thereafter,  when  the  giant  lay 
Supinely  rolled  against  thy  feet, 

Him  thou  didst  craftily  betray, 

With  amorous  vexings,  low  and  sweet, 
To  tell  thee  that  which  was  not  meet. 

And  Samson  spake  to  thee  again; 

"With   seven   green  withes   I   may   be 

bound, 
So  shall  I  be  as  other  men." 


(Delilah   at- 
tempteth  to 
discover     the 
source    of 
Samson's 
strength. 
Samson    very 
neatly  de- 
ceiveth  her.) 


TOWARD  THE  GULF 


Whereat    the    lords    the    green    withes  found- 
The  same  about  his  limbs  were  bound. 

Then  did  the  fish-god  in  thee  cry: 
"The  Philistines  be  upon  thee  now." 

But  Samson  broke  the  withes  awry, 
As  when  a  keen  fire  toucheth  tow; 
So  thou  didst  not  the  secret  know. 

But  thou,  being  full  of  guile,  didst  plead: 
"My  lord,  thou  hast  but  mocked  my  love 

With  lies  who  gave  thy  saying  heed; 
Hast  thou  not  vexed  my  heart  enough, 
To  ease  me  all  the  pain  thereof?" 

Now,  in  the  chamber  with  fresh  hopes, 
The  Hers  in  wait  did  list,  and  then 
He  said:  "Go  to,  and  get  new  ropes, 

Wherewith  thou  shalt  bind  me  again, 

So  shall  I  be  as  other  men." 


Then  didst  thou  do  as  he  had  said, 
Whereat  the  fish-god  in  thee  cried, 

"The  Philistines  be  upon  thy  head," 
He  shook  his  shoulders  deep  and  wide, 
And  cast  the  ropes  like  thread  aside. 

Yet  thou  still  fast  to  thy  conceit, 
Didst  chide  him  softly  then  and  say: 
[132] 


(Samson     re- 
taineth  his  in 
tellect    and 
the   lustihood 
of  his   body 
and  again 
misleadeth 
the  subtle 
craft  of  De 
lilah.) 


DELILAH 

"Beforetime  thou  hast  shown  deceit, 
And  mocked  my  quest  with  idle  play, 
Thou  canst  not  now  my  wish  gainsay." 

Then  with  the  secret  in  his  thought, 
He  said:  "If  thou  wilt  weave  my  hair, 

The  web  withal,  the  deed  is  wrought; 
Thou  shalt  have  all  my  strength  in  snare, 
And  I  as  other  men  shall  fare." 

Seven  locks  of  him  thou  tookest  and  wove 
The  web  withal  and  fastened  it, 

And  then  the  pin  thy  treason  drove, 
With  laughter  making  all  things  fit, 
As  did  beseem  thy  cunning  wit. 


Then  the  god  Dagon  speaking  by 
Thy  delicate  mouth  made  horrid  din; 

"Lo  the  Philistine  lords  are  nigh"— 
He  woke  ere  thou  couldst  scarce  begin, 
And  took  away  the  web  and  pin. 

Yet,  saying  not  it  doth  suffice, 
Thou  in  the  chamber's  secrecy, 

Didst  with  thy  artful  words  entice 
Samson  to  give  his  heart  to  thee, 
And  tell  thee  where  his  strength  might  be. 

[133] 


(Delilah    still 
pursueth    her 
designs    and 
Samson    be 
ginning  to  be 
somewhat 
wearied  hint- 
eth  very  close 
to  his  secret.) 


TOWARD  THE  GULF 

Pleading,  "How  canst  thou  still  aver, 

I  love  thee,  being  yet  unkind  ? 
How  is  it  thou  dost  minister 

Unto  my  heart  with  treacherous  mind, 

Thou  art  but  cruelly  inclined." 

From  early  morn  to  falling  dusk, 
At  night  upon  the  curtained  bed, 

Fragrant  with  spikenard  and  with  musk, 
For  weariness  he  laid  his  head, 
Whilst  thou  the  insidious  net  didst  spread. 


Nor  wouldst  not  give  him  any  rest, 

But  vexed  with  various  words  his  soul,      by  lust  and 
rr-ii    IIP  t         IT  IT  overcome    by 

1  ill  death  far  more  than  life  was  blest,          Delilah's  im- 

Shot  through  and  through  with  heavy       portunmes 
dole,  eth  her  where- 

He  gave  his  strength  to  thy  control. 

sisteth.) 

Saying,  "I  am  a  Nazarite, 
To  God  alway,  nor  hath  there  yet 

Razor  or  shears  done  despite 
To  these  my  locks  of  coarsen  jet, 
Therefore  my  strength  hath  known  no  let." 

"  But,  and  if  these  be  shaven  close, 

Whereas  I  once  was  strong  as  ten, 
I  may  not  meet  my  meanest  foes 

[134] 


DELILAH 


Among  the  hated  Philistine, 
1  shall  be  weak  like  other  men." 

He  turned  to  sleep,  the  spell  was  done, 
Thou  saidst  "Come  up  this  once,  I  trow 

The  secret  of  his  strength  is  known; 
Hereafter  sweat  shall  bead  his  brow, 
Bring  up  the  silver  thou  didst  vow." 

They  came,  and  sleeping  on  thy  knees, 
The  giant  of  his  locks  was  shorn. 

And  Dagon,  being  now  at  ease, 
Cried  like  the  harbinger  of  morn, 
To  see  the  giant's  strength  forlorn. 

For  he  wist  not  the  Lord  was  gone: — 
"  1  will  go  as  I  went  erewhile," 

He  said,  "and  shake  my  mighty  brawn." 
Without  the  captains,  file  on  file, 
Did  execute  Delilah's  guile. 

At  Gaza  where  the  mockers  pass, 
Midst  curses  and  unholy  sound, 

They  fettered  him  with  chains  of  brass, 
Put  out  his  eyes,  and  being  bound 
Within  the  prison  house  he  ground. 

The  heathen  looking  on  did  sing; 
"  Behold  our  god  into  our  hand, 

[135] 


(Samson  hav 
ing  trusted 
Delilah  turn- 
eth  to  sleep 
whereat   her 
minions   with 
force     falleth 
upon  him  and 
depriveth  him 
of  his 
strength.) 


(Sansculot- 
tism,  as  it 
seemeth,  is 
overthrown.) 


TOWARD  THE  GULF 


Hath  brought  him  for  our  banqueting, 
Who  slew  us  and  destroyed  our  land, 
Against  whom  none  of  us  could  stand." 

Now,  therefore,  when  the  festival 
Waxed  merrily,  with  one  accord, 

The  lords  and  captains  loud  did  call, 
To  bring  him  out  whom  they  abhorred, 
To  make  them  sport  who  sat  at  board. 

And  Samson  made  them  sport  and  stood 
Betwixt  the  pillars  of  the  house, 

Above  with  scornful  hardihood, 

Both  men  and  women  made  carouse, 
And  ridiculed  his  eyeless  brows. 


(Samson    be 
ing  no  longer 
formidable 
and  being  de 
prived  of  his 
eyes  is  re 
duced  to  slav 
ery  and  made 
the  sport  of 
the  heathen.) 

(After  a  time 
Samson  pray- 
eth  for  ven 
geance  even 
though  him 
self   should 
perish 
thereby.) 


Then  Samson  prayed  "Remember  me 
O  Lord,  this  once,  if  not  again. 

O  God,  behold  my  misery, 

Now  weaker  than  all  other  men, 
Who  once  was  mightier  than  ten." 


"Grant  vengeance  for  these  sightless  eyes, 
And  for  this  unrequited  toil, 

For  fraud,  injustice,  perjuries, 

For  lords  whose  greed  devours  the  soil, 
And  kings  and  rulers  who  despoil." 
[136] 


DELILAH 


"For  all  that  maketh  light  of  Thee, 

And  sets  at  naught  Thy  holy  word, 
For  tongues  that  babble  blasphemy, 


(Wherein    by 
a  very  nice 
conceit    rev- 

t  .  .        olution    is 

And  impious  hands  that  hold  the  sword —  symbolized.) 

Grant  vengeance,  though  I  perish,  Lord/' 


He  grasped  the  pillars,  having  prayed, 
And  bowed  himself — the  building  fell, 

And  on  three  thousand  souls  was  laid, 
Gone  soon  to  death  with  mighty  yell. 
And  Samson  died,  for  it  was  well. 

The  lords  and  captains  greatly  err, 
Thinking  that  Samson  is  no  more, 

Blind,  but  with  ever-growing  hair, 
He  grinds  from  Tyre  to  Singapore, 
While  yet  Delilah  plays  the  whore. 

So  it  hath  been,  and  yet  will  be, 
The  captains,  drunken  at  the  feast 

To  garnish  their  felicity, 

Will  taunt  him  as  a  captive  beast, 
Until  their  insolence  hath  ceased. 

Of  ribaldry  that  smelleth  sweet, 
To  Dagon  and  to  Ashtoreth; 

Of  bloody  stripes  from  head  to  feet, 
He  will  endure  unto  the  death, 
Being  blind,  he  also  nothing  saith. 

[1371 


(Wherein  it  is 
shown  that 
while  the  peo 
ple  like  Sam 
son  have  been 
blinded,  and 
have  not  re 
covered  their 
sight  still  that 
their  hair 
continueth  to 
grow.) 


TOWARD  THE  GULF 

Then  'gainst  the  Doric  capitals, 

Resting  in  prayer  to  God  for  power, 

He  will  shake  down  your  marble  walls, 
Abiding  heaven's  appointed  hour, 
And  those  that  fly  shall  hide  and  cower. 

But  this  Delilah  shall  survive, 

To  do  the  sin  already  done, 
Her  treacherous  wiles  and  arts  shall  thrive, 

At  Gaza  and  at  Ashkelon, 

A  woman  fair  to  look  upon. 


138] 


THE  WORLD-SAVER 

If  the  grim  Fates,  to  stave  ennui, 

Play  whips  for  fun,  or  snares  for  game, 

The  liar  full  of  ease  goes  free, 
And  Socrates  must  bear  the  shame. 

With  the  blunt  sage  he  stands  despised, 
The  Pharisees  salute  him  not; 

Laughter  awaits  the  truth  he  prized, 
And  Judas  profits  by  his  plot. 

A  million  angels  kneel  and  pray, 

And  sue  for  grace  that  he  may  win — 

Eternal  Jove  prepares  the  day, 
And  sternly  sets  the  fateful  gin. 

Satan,  who  hates  the  light,  is  fain, 
To  back  his  virtuous  enterprise; 

The  omnipotent  powers  alone  refrain, 
Only  the  Lord  of  hosts  denies. 

Whatever  of  woven  argument, 

Lacks  warp  to  hold  the  woof  in  place, 
Smothers  his  honest  discontent, 

But  leaves  to  view  his  woeful  face. 

[139] 


TOWARD  THE  GULF 

Fling  forth  the  flag,  devour  the  land, 

Grasp  destiny  and  use  the  law; 
But  dodge  the  epigram's  keen  brand, 

And  fall  not  by  the  ass's  jaw. 

The  idiot  snicker  strikes  more  down, 

Than  fell  at  Troy  or  Waterloo; 
Still,  still  he  meets  it  with  a  frown, 

And  argues  loudly  for  "the  True." 

Injustice  lengthens  out  her  chain, 
Greed,  yet  ahungered,  calls  for  more; 

But  while  the  eons  wax  and  wane, 
He  storms  the  barricaded  door. 

Wisdom  and  peace  and  fair  intent, 
Are  tedious  as  a  tale  twice  told; 

One  thing  increases  being  spent — 
Perennial  youth  belongs  to  gold. 

At  Weehawken  the  soul  set  free, 

Rules  the  high  realm  of  Bunker  Hill, 
Drink  life  from  that  philosophy, 
And  flourish  by  the  age's  will. 

If  he  shall  toil  to  clear  the  field, 

Fate's  children  seize  the  prosperous  year; 
Boldly  he  fashions  some  new  shield, 
And  naked  feels  the  victor's  spear. 

[140] 


THE  WORLD-SAVER 

He  rolls  the  world  up  into  day, 

He  finds  the  grain,  and  gets  the  hull. 

He  sees  his  own  mind  in  the  sway, 
And  Progress  tiptoes  on  his  skull. 

Angels  and  fiends  behold  the  wrong, 

And  execrate  his  losing  fight; 
While  Jove  amidst  the  choral  song     . 

Smiles,  and  the  heavens  glow  with  light! 

—  Trueblood 


Trueblood  is  bewitched  to  write  a  drama — 

Only  one  drama,  then  to  die.    Enough 

To  win  the  heights  but  once!    He  writes  me  letters, 

These  later  days  marked  "Opened  by  the  Censor," 

About  his  drama,  asks  me  what  I  think 

About  this  point  of  view,  and  that  approach, 

And  whether  to  etch  in  his  hero's  soul 

By  etching  in  his  hero's  enemies, 

Or  luminate  his  hero  by  enshadowing 

His  hero's  enemies.    How  shall  I  tell  him 

Which  is  the  actual  and  the  larger  theme, 

His  hero  or  his  hero's  enemies? 

And  through  it  all  I  see  that  Trueblood's  mind 

Runs  to  the  under-dog,  the  fallen  Titan 

The  god  misunderstood,  the  lover  of  man 

Destroyed  by  heaven  for  his  love  of  man. 

[HI] 


TOWARD  THE  GULF 

In  July,  1914,  while  in  London 

He  took  me  to  his  house  to  dine  and  showed  me 

The  verses  as  above.    And  while  I  read 

He  left  the  room,  returned,  I  heard  him  move 

The  ash  trays  on  the  table  where  we  sat 

And  set  some  object  on  the  table. 

Then 

As  I  looked  up  from  reading  I  discovered 
A  skull  and  bony  hand  upon  the  table. 
And  Trueblood  said:  "Look  at  the  loft  brow! 
And  what  a  hand  was  this!    A  right  hand  too. 
Those  fingers  in  the  flesh  did  miracles. 
And  when  I  have  my  hero's  skull  before  me, 
His  hand  that  moulded  peoples,  I  should  write 
The  drama  that  possesses  all  my  thought. 
You'd  think  the  spirit  of  the  man  would  come 
And  show  me  how  to  find  the  key  that  fits 
The  story  of  his  life,  reveal  its  secret. 
I  know  the  secrets,  but  I  want  the  secret. 
You'd  think  his  spirit  out  of  gratitude 
Would  start  me  off.    It's  something,  I  insist, 
To  find  a  haven  with  a  dramatist 
After  your  bones  have  crossed  the  sea,  and  after 
Passing  from  hand  to  hand  they  reach  seclusion, 
And  reverent  housing. 

Dying  in  New  York 
He  lay  for  ten  years  in  a  lonely  grave 


THE  WORLD-SAVER 

Somewhere  along  the  Hudson,  I  believe. 

No  grave  yard  in  the  city  would  receive  him. 

Neither  a  banker  nor  a  friend  of  banks, 

Nor  falling  in  a  duel  to  awake 

Indignant  sorrow,  space  in  Trinity 

Was  not  so  much  as  offered.    He  was  poor, 

And  never  had  a  tomb  like  Washington. 

Of  course  he  wasn't  Washington — but  still, 

Study  that  skull  a  little!    In  ten  years 

A  mad  admirer  living  here  in  England 

Went  to  America  and  dug  him  up, 

And  brought  his  bones  to  Liverpool.    Just  then 

Our  country  was  in  turmoil  over  France — 

(The  details  are  so  rich  I  lose  my  head, 

And  can't  construct  my  acts.) — hell's  flaming  here, 

And  we  are  fighting  back  the  roaring  fire 

That  France  had  lighted.    England  would  abort 

The  era  she  embraced.    Here  is  a  point 

That  vexes  me  in  laying  out  the  scenes, 

And  persons  of  the  play.    For  parliament 

Went  into  fury  that  these  bones  were  here 

On  British  soil.    The  city  raged.    They  took 

The  poor  town-crier,  gave  him  nine  months'  prison 

For  crying  on  the  streets  the  bones'  arrival. 

I'd  like  to  put  that  crier  in  my  play. 

The  scene  of  his  arrest  would  thrill,  in  case 

I  put  it  on  a  background  understood, 

And  showing  why  the  fellow  was  arrested, 


TOWARD  THE  GULF 

And  what  a  high  offence  to  heaven  it  was. 

Then  here's  another  thing:    The  monument 

This  zealous  friend  had  planned  was  never  raised. 

The  city  wouldn't  have  it — you  can  guess 

The  brain  that  filled  this  skull  and  moved  this  hand 

Had  given  England  trouble.    Yes,  believe  me! 

He  roused  rebellion  and  he  scattered  pamphlets. 

He  had  the  English  gift  of  writing  pamphlets. 

He  stirred  up  peoples  with  his  English  gift 

Against  the  mother  country.    How  to  show  this 

In  action,  not  in  talk,  is  difficult. 

Well,  then  here  is  our  friend  who  has  these  bones 
And  cannot  honor  them  in  burial. 
And  so  he  keeps  them,  then  becomes  a  bankrupt. 
And  look!  the  bones  pass  to  our  friend's  receiver. 
Are  they  an  asset?    Our  Lord  Chancellor 
Does  not  regard  them  so.    I'd  like  to  work 
Some  humor  in  my  drama  at  this  point, 
And  satirize  his  lordship  just  a  little. 
Though  you  can  scarcely  call  a  skull  an  asset 
If  it  be  of  a  man  who  helped  to  cost  you 
The  loss  of  half  the  world.    So  the  receiver 
Cast  out  the  bones  and  for  a  time  a  laborer 
Took  care  of  them.    He  sold  them  to  a  man 
Who  dealt  in  furniture.    The  empty  coffin 
About  this  time  turned  up  in  Guilford — then 
It's  1854,  the  man  is  dead 

[144] 


THE  WORLD-SAVER 

Near  forty  years,  when  just  the  skull  and  hand 

Are  owned  by  Rev.  Ainslie,  who  evades 

All  questions  touching  on  that  ownership, 

And  where  the  ribs,  spine,  arms  and  thigh  bones  are — 

The  rest  in  short. 

And  as  for  me — no  matter 

Who  sold  them,  gave  them  to  me,  loaned  them  to  me. 
Behold  the  good  right  hand,  behold  the  skull 
Of  Thomas  Paine,  theo-philanthropist, 
Of  Quaker  parents,  born  in  England !    Look, 
That  is  the  hand  that  wrote  the  Crisis,  wrote 
The  Age  of  Reason,  Common  Sense,  and  rallied 
Americans  against  the  mother  country, 
With  just  that  English  gift  of  pamphleteering. 
You  see  I'd  have  to  bring  George  Washington, 
And  James  Monroe  and  Thomas  Jefferson 
Upon  the  stage,  and  put  into  their  mouths 
The  eulogies  they  spoke  on  Thomas  Paine, 
To  get  before  the  audience  that  they  thought 
He  did  as  much  as  any  man  to  win 
Your  independence;  that  your  Declaration 
Was  founded  on  his  writings,  even  inspired 
A  clause  against  your  negro  slavery — how — 
Look  at  this  hand! — he  was  the  first  to  write 
United  States  of  America — there's  the  hand 
That  was  the  first  to  write  those  words.    Good  Lord 
This  drama  would  out-last  a  Chinese  drama 


TOWARD  THE  GULF 

If  I  put  all  the  story  in.    But  tell  me 
What  to  omit,  and  what  to  stress  ? 

And  still 

I'd  have  the  greatest  drama  in  the  world 
If  I  could  prove  he  was  dishonored,  hunted, 
Neglected,  libeled,  buried  like  a  beast, 
His  bones  dug  up,  thrown  in  and  out  of  Chancery. 
And  show  these  horrors  overtook  Tom  Paine 
Because  he  was  too  great,  and  by  this  showing 
Instruct  the  world  to  honor  its  torch  bearers 
For  time  to  come.    No?    Well,  that  can't  be  done — 
I  know  that;  but  it  puzzles  me  to  think 
That  Hamilton — we'll  say,  is  so  revered, 
So  lauded,  toasted,  all  his  papers  studied 
On  tariffs  and  on  banks,  evoking  ahs! 
Great   genius!   and   so   forth — and   there's   the   Crisis 
And  Common  Sense  which  only  little  Shelleys 
Haunting  the  dusty  book  shops  read  at  all. 
It  wasn't  that  he  liked  his  rum  and  drank 
Too  much  at  times,  or  chased  a  pretty  skirt — 
For  Hamilton  did  that.    Paine  never  mixed 
In  money  matters  to  another's  wrong 
For  his  sake  or  a  system's.    Yes,  I  know 
The  world  cares  more  for  chastity  and  temperance 
Than  for  a  faultless  life  in  money  matters. 
No  use  to  dramatize  that  vital  contrast, 
The  world  to-day  is  what  it  always  was. 

[H6] 


THE  WORLD-SAVER 

But  you  don't  call  this  Hamilton  an  artist 
And  Paine  a  mere  logician  and  a  wrangler? 
Your  artist  soul  gets  limed  in  this  mad  world 
As  much  as  any.    There  is  Leonardo — 
The  point's  not  here. 

I  think  it's  more  like  this: 
Some  men  are  Titans  and  some  men  are  gods, 
And  some  are  gods  who  fall  while  climbing  back 
Up  to  Olympus  whence  they  came.    And  some 
While  fighting  for  the  race  fall  into  holes 
Where  to  return  and  rescue  them  is  death. 
Why  look  you  here!    You'd  think  America 
Had  gone  to  war  to  cheat  the  guillotine 
Of  Thomas  Paine,  in  fiery  gratitude. 
He's  there  in  France's  national  assembly, 
And  votes  to  save  King  Louis  with  this  phrase: 
Don't  kill  the  man  but  kill  the  kingly  office. 
They  think  him  faithless  to  the  revolution 
For  words  like  these — and  clap !  the  prison  door 
Shuts  on  our  Thomas.    So  he  writes  a  letter 
To  president — of  what! — to  Washington 
President  of  the  United  States  of  America, 
A  title  which  Paine  coined  in  seventy-seven 
Now  lettered  on  a  monstrous  seal  of  state! 
And  Washington  is  silent,  never  answers, 
And  leaves  our  Thomas  shivering  in  a  cell, 
Who  hears  the  guillotine  go  slash  and  click! 

[H7] 


TOWARD  THE  GULF 

Perhaps  this  is  the  nucleus  of  my  drama. 
Or  else  to  show  that  Washington  was  wise 
Respecting  England's  hatred  of  our  Thomas, 
And  wise  to  lift  no  finger  to  save  Thomas, 
Incurring  England's  wrath,  who  hated  Thomas 
For  pamphlets  like  the  "Crisis"  "Common  Sense." 
That  may  be  just  the  story  for  my  drama. 
Old  Homer  satirized  the  human  race 
For  warring  for  the  rescue  of  a  Cyprian. 
But  there's  not  stuff  for  satire  in  a  war 
Ensuing  on  the  insult  for  the  rescue 
Of  nothing  but  a  fellow  who  wrote  pamphlets, 
And  won  a  continent  for  the  rescuer. 
That's  tragedy,  the  more  so  if  the  fellow 
Likes  rum  and  writes  that  Jesus  was  a  man. 
This  crushing  of  poor  Thomas  in  the  hate 
Of  England  and  her  power,  America's 
Great  fear  and  lowered  strength  might  make  a  drama 
As  showing  how  the  more  you  do  in  life 
The  greater  shall  you  suffer.    This  is  true, 
If  what  you  battered  down  gets  hold  of  you. 
This  drama  almost  drives  me  mad  at  times. 
I  have  his  story  at  my  fingers'  ends. 
But  it  won't  take  a  shape.    It  flies  my  hands. 
I  think  I'll  have  to  give  it  up.    What's  that? 
Well,  if  an  audience  of  to-day  would  turn 
From  seeing  Thomas  Paine  upon  the  stage 
What  is  the  use  to  write  it,  if  they'd  turn 
[148] 


THE  WORLD-SAVER 

No  matter  how  you  wrote  it  ?    I  believe 

They  wouldn't  like  it  in  America, 

Nor  England  either,  maybe — you  are  right! 

A  drama  with  no  audience  is  a  failure. 

But  here's  this  skull.    What  shall  I  do  with  it? 

If  I  should  have  it  cased  in  solid  silver 

There  is  no  shrine  to  take  it — no  Cologne 

For  skulls  like  this. 

Well,  I  must  die  sometime, 
And  who  will  get  it  then  ?    Look  at  this  skull ! 
This  bony  hand!    Then  look  at  me,  my  friend :j 
A  man  who  has  a  theme  the  world  despises !      I 


149 


RECESSIONAL 

IN  TIME  OF  WAR 

MEDICAL  UNIT — 

Even  as  I  see,  and  share  with  you  in  seeing, 

The  altar  flame  of  your  love's  sacrifice; 

And  even  as  I  bear  before  the  hour  the  vision, 

Your  little  hands  in  hospital  and  prison 

Laid  upon  broken  bodies,  dying  eyes, 

So  do  I  suffer  for  splendor  of  your  being 

Which  leads  you  from  me,  and  in  separation 

Lays  on  my  breast  the  pain  of  memory. 

Over  your  hands  I  bend 

In  silent  adoration, 

Dumb  for  a  fear  of  sorrow  without  end, 

Asking  for  consolation 

Out  of  the  sacrament  of  our  separation, 

And  for  some  faithful  word  acceptable  and  true, 

That  I  may  know  and  keep  the  mystery: 

That  in  this  separation  I  go  forth  with  you 

And  you  to  the  world's  end  remain  with  me. 

***** 
[ISO] 


RECESSIONAL 

How  may  I  justify  the  hope  that  rises 

That  I  am  giving  you  to  a  world  of  pain, 

And  am  a  part  of  your  love's  sacrifices? 

Is  it  so  little  if  I  see  you  not  again  ? 

You  will  croon  soldier  lads  to  sleep, 

Even  to  the  last  sleep  of  all. 

But  in  this  absence,  as  your  love  will  keep 

Your  breast  for  me  for  comfort,  if  I  fall, 

So  I,  though  far  away,  shall  kneel  by  you 

If  the  last  hour  approaches,  to  bedew 

Your  lips  that  from  their  infant  wondering 

Lisped  of  a  heaven  lost. 

I  shall  kiss  down  your  eyes,  and  count  the  cost 

As  mine,  who  gave  you,  by  the  tragic  giving. 

Go  forth  with  spirit  to  death,  and  to  the  living 

Bearing  a  solace  in  death. 

God  has  breathed  on  you  His  transfiguring  breath,- 

You  are  transfigured 

Before  me,  and  I  bow  my  head, 

And  leave  you  in  the  light  that  lights  your  way, 

And  shadows  me.    Even  now  the  hour  is  sped, 

And  the  hour  we  must  obey — 

Look-  you,  I  will  go  pray ! 


THE  AWAKENING 

When  you  lie  sleeping;  golden  hair 
Tossed  on  your  pillow,  sea  shell  pink 
Ears  that  nestle,  I  forbear 
A  moment  while  I  look  and  think 
How  you  are  mine,  and  if  I  dare 
To  bend  and  kiss  you  lying  there. 


A  Raphael  in  the  flesh!    Resist 

I  cannot,  though  to  break  your  sleep 

Is  thoughtless  of  me — you  are  kissed 

And  roused  from  slumber  dreamless,  deep — 

You  rub  away  the  slumber's  mist, 

You  scold  and  almost  weep. 


It  is  too  bad  to  wake  you  so, 
Just  for  a  kiss.    But  when  awake 
You  sing  and  dance,  nor  seem  to  know 
You  slept  a  sleep  too  deep  to  break 
From  which  I  roused  you  long  ago 
For  nothing  but  my  passion's  sake — 
What  though  your  heart  should  ache! 


IN  THE  GARDEN  AT  THE  DAWN  HOUR 

I  arise  in  the  silence  of  the  dawn  hour, 

And  softly  steal  out  to  the  garden 

Under  the  Favrile  goblet  of  the  dawning. 

And  a  wind  moves  out  of  the  south-land, 

Like  a  film  of  silver, 

And  thrills  with  a  far  borne  message 

The  flowers  of  the  garden. 

Poppies  untie  their  scarlet  hoods  and  wave  them 

To  the  south  wind  as  he  passes. 

But  the  zinnias  and  calendulas, 

In  a  mood  of  calm  reserve,  nod  faintly 

As  the  south  wind  whispers  the  secret 

Of  the  dawn  hour! 


I  stand  in  the  silence  of  the  dawn  hour 

In  the  garden, 

As  the  star  of  morning  fades. 

Flying  from  scythes  of  air 

The  hare-bells,  purples  and  golden  glow 

On  the  sand-hill  back  of  the  orchard 

Race  before  the  feet  of  the  wind. 

But  clusters  of  oak-leaves  over  the  yellow  sand  rim 

Begin  to  flutter  and  glisten. 

[153] 


TOWARD  THE  GULF 

And  in  a  moment,  in  a  twinkled  passion, 

The  blazing  rapiers  of  the  sun  are  flashed, 

As  he  fences  the  lilac  lights  of  the  sky, 

And  drives  them  up  where  the  ice  of  the  melting  moon 

Is  drowned  in  the  waste  of  morning! 


In  the  silence  of  the  garden, 

At  the  dawn  hour 

I  turn  and  see  you — 

You  who  knew  and  followed, 

You  who  knew  the  dawn  hour, 

And  its  sky  like  a  Favrile  goblet. 

You  who  knew  the  south-wind 

Bearing  the  secret  of  the  morning 

To  waking  gardens,  fields  and  forests. 

You  in  a  gown  of  green,  0  footed  Iris, 

With  eyes  of  dryad  gray, 

And  the  blown  glory  of  unawakened  tresses — 

A  phantom  sprung  out  of  the  garden's  enchantment, 

In  the  silence  of  the  dawn  hour! 


And  here  I  behold  you 

Amid  a  trance  of  color,  silent  music, 

The  embodied  spirit  of  the  morning: 

Wind  from  the  south-land,  flashing  beams  of  the  sun 

Caught  in  the  twinkling  oak  leaves: 


IN  THE  GARDEN  AT  THE  DAWN  HOUR 

Poppies  who  wave  their  untied  hoods  to  the  south  wind; 
And  the  imperious  bows  of  zinnias  and  calendulas; 
The  star  of  morning  drowned,  and  lights  of  lilac 
Turned  white  for  the  woe  of  the  moon; 
And  the  silence  of  the  dawn  hour! 


And  there  to  take  you  in  my  arms  and  feel  you 

In  the  glory  of  the  dawn  hour, 

Along  the  sinuous  rhythm  of  flesh  and  flesh! 

To  know  your  spirit  by  that  oneness 

Of  living  and  of  love,  in  the  twinkled  passion 

Of  life  re-lit  and  visioned. 

In  dryad  eyes  beholding 

The  dancing,  leaping,  touching  hands  and  racing 

Rapturous  moment  of  the  arisen  sun; 

And  the  first  drop  of  day  out  of  this  cup  of  Favrile. 

There  to  behold  you, 

Our  spirits  lost  together 

In  the  silence  of  the  dawn  hour! 


1 155 


FRANCE 

France  fallen !     France  arisen!     France  of  the  brave! 
France  of  lost  hopes !     France  of  Promethean  zeal ! 
Napoleon's  France,  that  bruised  the  despot's  heel 
Of  Europe,  while  the  feudal  world  did  rave. 
Thou  France  that  didst  burst  through  the  rock-bound 

grave 

Which  Germany  and  England  joined  to  seal, 
And  undismayed  didst  seek  the  human  weal, 
Through  which  thou  couldst  thyself  and  others  save — 
The  wreath  of  amaranth  and  eternal  praise! 
When  every  hand  was  'gainst  thee,  so  was  ours. 
Freedom  remembers,  and  I  can  forget: — 
Great  are  we  by  the  faith  our  past  betrays, 
And  noble  now  the  great  Republic  flowers 
Incarnate  with  the  soul  of  Lafayette. 


156] 


BERTRAND    AND    GOURGAUD    TALK    OVER 
OLD  TIMES 

Gourgaud,  these  tears  are  tears — but  look,  this  laugh, 
How  hearty  and  serene — you  see  a  laugh 
Which  settles  to  a  smile  of  lips  and  eyes 
Makes  tears  just  drops  of  water  on  the  leaves 
When  rain  falls  from  a  sun-lit  sky,  my  friend, 
Drink  to  me,  clasp  my  hand,  embrace  me,  call  me 
Beloved  Bertrand.    Ha!  I  sigh  for  joy. 
Look  at  our  Paris,  happy,  whole,  renewed, 
Refreshed  by  youth,  new  dressed  in  human  leaves, 
Shaking  its  fresh  blown  blossoms  to  the  world. 
And  here  we  sit  grown  old,  of  memories 
Top-full — your  hand — my  breast  is  all  afire 
With  happiness  that  warms,  makes  young  again. 

You  see  it  is  not  what  we  saw  to-day 
That  makes  me  spirit,  rids  me  of  the  flesh:— 
But  all  that  I  remember,  we  remember 
Of  what  the  world  was,  what  it  is  to-day, 
Beholding  how  it  grows.    Gourgaud,  I  see 
Not  in  the  rise  of  this  man  or  of  that, 
Nor  in  a  battle's  issue,  in  the  blow 
That  lifts  or  fells  a  nation — no,  my  friend, 
God  is  not  there,  but  in  the  living  stream 

[157] 


TOWARD  THE  GULF 

Which  sweeps  in  spite  of  eddies,  undertows, 

Cross-currents,  what  you  will,  to  that  result 

Where  stillness  shows  the  star  that  fits  the  star 

Of  truth  in  spirits  treasured,  imaged,  kept 

Through  sorrow,  blood  and  death, — God  moves  in  that 

And  there  I  find  Him. 

But  these  tears — for  whom 

Or  what  are  tears?    The  Old  Guard — oh,  my  friend 
That  melancholy  remnant!    And  the  horse, 
White,  to  be  sure,  but  not  Marengo,  wearing 
The  saddle  and  the  bridle  which  he  used. 
My  tears  take  quality  for  these  pitiful  things, 
But  other  quality  for  the  purple  robe 
Over  the  coffin  lettered  in  pure  gold 
"Napoleon" — ah,  the  emperor  at  last 
Come  back  to  Paris!    And  his  spirit  looks 
Over  the  land  he  loved,  with  what  result? 
Does  just  the  army  that  acclaimed  him  rise 
Which  rose  to  hail  him  back  from  Elba? — no 
All  France  acclaims  him!    Princes  of  the  church, 
And  notables  uncover!    At  the  door 
A  herald  cries  "The  Emperor!"    Those  assembled 
Rise  and  do  reverence  to  him.    Look  at  Soult, 
He  hands  the  king  the  sword  of  Austerlitz, 
The  king  turns  to  me,  hands  the  sword  to  me, 
I  place  it  on  the  coffin — dear  Gourgaud, 
Embrace  me,  clasp  my  hand!    I  weep  and  laugh 

[158] 


BERTRAND  AND  GOURGAUD 

For  thinking  that  the  Emperor  is  home; 

For  thinking  I  have  laid  upon  his  bed 

The  sword  that  makes  inviolable  his  bed, 

Since  History  stepped  to  where  I  stood  and  stands 

To  say  forever:  Here  he  rests,  be  still, 

Bow  down,  pass  by  in  reverence — the  Ages 

Like  giant  caryatides  that  look 

With  sleepless  eyes  upon  the  world  and  hold 

With  never  tiring  hands  the  Vault  of  Time, 

Command  your  reverence. 

What  have  we  seen? 

Why  this,  that  every  man,  himself  achieving 
Exhausts  the  life  that  drives  him  to  the  work 
Of  self-expression,  of  the  vision  in  him, 
His  reason  for  existence,  as  he  sees  it. 
He  may  or  may  not  mould  the  epic  stuff 
As  he  would  wish,  as  lookers  on  have  hope 
His  hands  shall  mould  it,  and  by  failing  take — 
For  slip  of  hand,  tough  clay  or  blinking  eye, 
A  cinder  for  that  moment  in  the  eye — 
A  world  of  blame;  for  hooting  or  dispraise 
Have  all  his  work  misvalued  for  the  time, 
And  pump  his  heart  up  harder  to  subdue 
Envy,  or  fear  or  greed,  in  any  case 
He  grows  and  leaves  and  blossoms,  so  consumes 
His  soul's  endowment  in  the  vision  of  life. 
And  thus  of  him.    Why,  there  at  Fontainebleau 


TOWARD  THE  GULF 

He  is  a  man  full  spent,  he  idles,  sleeps, 

Hears  with  dull  ears:  Down  with  the  Corsican, 

Up  with  the  Bourbon  lilies!    Royalists, 

Conspirators,  and  clericals  may  shout 

Their  hatred  of  him,  but  he  sits  for  hours 

Kicking  the  gravel  with  his  little  heel, 

Which  lately  trampled  sceptres  in  the  mud. 

Well,  what  was  he  at  Waterloo? — you  know: 

That  piercing  spirit  which  at  mid-day  power 

Knew  all  the  maps  of  Europe — could  unfold 

A  map  and  say  here  is  the  place,  the  way, 

The  road,  the  valley,  hill,  destroy  them  here. 

Why,  all  his  memory  of  maps  was  blurred 

The  night  before  he  failed  at  Waterloo. 

The  Emperor  was  sick,  my  friend,  we  know  it. 

He  could  not  ride  a  horse  at  Waterloo. 

His  soul  was  spent,  that's  all.     But  who  was  rested? 

The  dirty  Bourbons  skulking  back  to  Paris, 

Now  that  our  giant  democrat  was  sick. 

Oh,  yes,  the  dirty  Bourbons  skulked  to  Paris 

Helped  by  the  Duke  and  Bliicher,  damn  their  souls. 

What  is  a  man  to  do  whose  work  is  done 
And  does  not  feel  so  well,  has  cancer,  say? 
You  know  he  could  have  reached  America 
After  his  fall  at  Waterloo.    Good  God ! 
If  only  he  had  done  it!    For  they  say 
New  Orleans  is  a  city  good  to  live  in. 
[160] 


BERTRAND  AND  GOURGAUD 

And  he  had  ceded  to  America 
Louisiana,  which  in  time  would  curb 
The  English  lion.    But  he  didn't  go  there. 
His  mind  was  weakened  else  he  had  foreseen 
The  lion  he  had  tangled,  wounded,  scourged 
Would  claw  him  if  it  got  him,  play  with  him 
Before  it  killed  him.    Who  was  England  then? — 

An  old,  mad,  blind,  despised  and  dying  king 
Who  lost  a  continent  for  the  lust  that  slew 
The  Emperor — the  world  will  say  at  last 
It  was  no  other.    Who  was  England  then? 
A  regent  bad  as  husband,  father,  son, 
Monarch  and  friend.    But  who  was  England  then? 
Great  Castlereagh  who  cut  his  throat,  but  who 
Had  cut  his  country's  long  before.    The  duke — 
Since  Waterloo,  and  since  the  Emperor  slept — 
The  English  stoned  the  duke,  he  bars  his  windows 
With  iron  'gainst  the  mobs  who  break  to  fury, 
To  see  the  Duke  waylay  democracy. 
The  world's  great  conqueror's  conqueror! — Eh  bien! 
Grips  England  after  Waterloo,  but  when 
The  people  see  the  duke  for  what  he  is: 
A  blocker  of  reform,  a  Tory  sentry, 
A  spotless  knight  of  ancient  privilege, 
They  up  and  stone  him,  by  the  very  deed 
Stone  him  for  wronging  the  democracy 
The  Emperor  erected  with  the  sword. 
[161] 


TOWARD  THE  GULF 

The  world's  great  conqueror's  conqueror — Oh,  I  sicken! 
Odes  are  like  head-stones,  standing  while  the  graves 
Are  guarded  and  kept  up,  but  falling  down 
To  ruin  and  erasure  when  the  graves 
Are  left  to  sink.    Hey!  there  you  English  poets, 
Picking  from  daily  libels,  slanders,  junk 
Of  metal  for  your  tablets  'gainst  the  Emperor, 
Melt  up  true  metal  at  your  peril,  poets, 
Sweet  moralists,  monopolists  of  God. 
But  who  was  England  ?    Byron  driven  out, 
And  courts  of  chancery  vile  but  sacrosanct, 
Despoiling  Shelley  of  his  children;  Southey, 
The  turn-coat  panegyrist  of  King  George, 
An  old,  mad,  blind,  despised,  dead  king  at  last; 
A  realm  of  rotten  boroughs  massed  to  stop 
The  progress  of  democracy  and  chanting 
To  God  Almighty  hymns  for  Waterloo, 
Which  did  not  stop  democracy,  as  they  hoped. 
For  England  of  to-day  is  freer — why? 
The  revolution  and  the  Emperor! 
They  quench  the  revolution,  send  Napoleon 
To  St.  Helena — but  the  ashes  soar 
Grown  finer,  grown  invisible  at  last. 
And  all  the  time  a  wind  is  blowing  ashes, 
And  sifting  them  upon  the  spotless  linen 
Of  kings  and  dukes  in  England  till  at  last 
They  find  themselves  mistaken  for  the  people. 
Drink  to  me,  clasp  my  hand,  embrace  me — tiens! 
[162] 


BERTRAND  AND  GOURGAUD 

The  Emperor  is  home  again  in  France, 

And  Europe  for  democracy  is  thrilling. 

Now  don't  you  see  the  Emperor  was  sick, 

The  shadows  falling  slant  across  his  mind 

To  write  to  such  an  England:  "My  career 

Is  ended  and  I  come  to  sit  me  down 

Before  the  fireside  of  the  British  people, 

And  claim  protection  from  your  Royal  Highness  " — 

This  to  the  regent — "  as  a  generous  foe 

Most  constant  and  most  powerful" — I  weep. 

They  tricked  him  Gourgaud.    Once  upon  the  ship, 

He  thinks  he's  bound  for  England,  and  why  not? 

They  dine  him,  treat  him  like  an  Emperor. 

And  then  they  tack  and  sail  to  St.  Helena, 

Give  him  a  cow  shed  for  a  residence. 

Depute  that  thing  Sir  Hudson  Lowe  to  watch  him, 

Spy  on  his  torture,  intercept  his  letters, 

Step  on  his  broken  wings,  and  mock  the  film 

Descending  on  those  eyes  of  failing  fire.  .  .  . 

One  day  the  packet  brought  to  him  a  book 

Inscribed  by  Hobhouse,  "To  the  Emperor." 

Lowe  kept  the  book  but  when  the  Emperor  learned 

Lowe  kept  the  book,  because  'twas  so  inscribed, 

The  Emperor  said — I  stood  near  by — "Who  gave  you 

The  right  to  slur  my  title?    In  a  few  years 

Yourself,  Lord  Castlereagh,  the  duke  himself 

Will  be  beneath  oblivion's  dust,  remembered 


TOWARD  THE  GULF 

For  your  indignities  to  me,  that's  all. 

England  expended  millions  on  her  libels 

To  poison  Europe's  mind  and  make  my  purpose 

Obscure  or  bloody — how  have  they  availed  ? 

You  have  me  here  upon  this  scarp  of  rock, 

But  truth  will  pierce  the  clouds,  'tis  like  the  sun 

And  like  the  sun  it  cannot  be  destroyed. 

Your  Wellingtons  and  Metternichs  may  dam 

The  liberal  stream,  but  only  to  make  stronger 

The  torrent  when  it  breaks."    Is  it  not  true? 

That's  why  I  weep  and  laugh  to-day,  my  friend 

And  trust  God  as  I  have  not  trusted  yet. 

And  then  the  Emperor  said:  "What  have  I  claimed? 

A  portion  of  the  royal  blood  of  Europe? 

A  crown  for  blood's  sake?    No,  my  royal  blood 

Is  dated  from  the  field  of  Montenotte, 

And  from  my  mother  there  in  Corsica, 

And  from  the  revolution.    I'm  a  man 

Who  made  himself  because  the  people  made  me. 

You  understand  as  little  as  she  did 

When  I  had  brought  her  back  from  Austria, 

And  riding  through  the  streets  of  Paris  pointed 

Up  to  the  window  of  the  little  room 

Where  I  had  lodged  when  I  came  from  Brienne, 

A  poor  boy  with  my  way  to  make — as  poor 

As  Andrew  Jackson  in  America, 

No  more  a  despot  than  he  is  a  despot. 

Your  England  understands.    I  was  a  menace 

[164] 


BERTRAND  AND  GOURGAUD 

Not  as  a  despot,  but  as  head  and  front, 

Eyes,  brain  and  leader  of  democracy, 

Which  like  the  messenger  of  God  was  marking 

The  doors  of  kings  for  slaughter.    England  lies. 

Your  England  understands  I  had  to  hold 

By  rule  compact  a  people  drunk  with  rapture, 

And  torn  by  counter  forces,  had  to  fight 

The  royalists  of  Europe  who  beheld 

Their  peoples  feverish  from  the  great  infection, 

Who  hoped  to  stamp  the  plague  in  France  and  stop 

Its  spread  to  them.    Your  England  understands. 

Save  Castlereagh  and  Wellington  and  Southey. 

But  look  you,  sir,  my  roads,  canals  and  harbors, 

My  schools,  finance,  my  code,  the  manufactures 

Arts,  sciences  I  builded,  democratic 

Triumphs  which  I  won  will  live  for  ages — 

These  are  my  witnesses,  will  testify 

Forever  what  I  was  and  meant  to  do. 

The  ideas  which  I  brought  to  power  will  stifle 

All  royalty,  all  feudalism — look 

They  live  in  England,  they  illuminate 

America,  they  will  be  faith,  religion 

For  every  people — these  I  kindled,  carried 

Their  flaming  torch  through  Europe  as  the  chief 

Torch  bearer,  soldier,  representative." 

You  were  not  there,  Gourgaud — but  wait  a  minute, 
I  choke  with  tears  and  laughter.    Listen  now: 

[1651 


TOWARD  THE  GULF 

Sir  Hudson  Lowe  looked  at  the  Emperor 
Contemptuous  but  not  the  less  bewitched. 
And  when  the  Emperor  finished,  out  he  drawled 
"You  make  me  smile."    Why  that  is  memorable: 
It  should  be  carved  upon  Sir  Hudson's  stone. 
He  was  a  prophet,  founder  of  the  sect 
Of  smilers  and  of  laughers  through  the  world, 
Smilers  and  laughers  that  the  Emperor 
Told  every  whit  the  truth.    Look  you  at  Europe, 
What  were  it  in  this  day  except  for  France, 
Napoleon's  France,  the  revolution's  France? 
What  will  it  be  as  time  goes  on  but  peoples 
Made  free  through  France? 

I  take  the  good  and  ill, 
Think  over  how  he  lounged,  lay  late  in  bed, 
Spent  long  hours  in  the  bath,  counted  the  hours, 
Pale,  broken,  wracked  with  pain,  insulted,  watched, 
His  child  torn  from  him,  Josephine  and  wife 
Silent  or  separate,  waiting  long  for  death, 
Looking  with  filmed  eyes  upon  his  wings 
Broken,  upon  the  rocks  stretched  out  to  gain 
A  little  sun,  and  crying  to  the  sea 
With  broken  voice — I  weep  when  I  remember 
Such  things  which  you  and  I  from  day  to  day 
Beheld,  nor  could  not  mitigate.    But  then 
There  is  that  night  of  thunder,  and  the  dawning 
And  all  that  day  of  storm  and  toward  the  evening 
[166] 


BERTRAND  AND  GOURGAUD 

He  says:  "Deploy  the  eagles!"    "Onward!"    Well, 
I  leave  the  room  and  say  to  Steward  there: 
"The  Emperor  is  dead/'    That  very  moment 
A  crash  of  thunder  deafened  us.    You  see 
A  great  age  boomed  in  thunder  its  renewal — 
Drink  to  me,  clasp  my  hand,  embrace  me,  friend. 


[167] 


DRAW  THE  SWORD,  O  REPUBLIC! 

By  the  blue  sky  of  a  clear  vision, 

And  by  the  white  light  of  a  great  illumination, 

And  by  the  blood-red  of  brotherhood, 

Draw  the  sword,  O  Republic! 

Draw  the  sword ! 

For  the  light  which  is  England, 
And  the  resurrection  which  is  Russia, 
And  the  sorrow  which  is  France, 
And  for  peoples  everywhere 
Crying  in  bondage, 
And  in  poverty! 

You  have  been  a  leaven  in  the  earth,  0  Republic! 
And  a  watch-fire  on  the  hill-top  scattering  sparks; 
And  an  eagle  clanging  his  wings  on  a  cloud-wrapped 

promontory: 

Now  the  leaven  must  be  stirred, 
And  the  brands  themselves  carried  and  touched 
To  the  jungles  and  the  black-forests. 
Now  the  eaglets  are  grown,  they  are  calling, 
They  are  crying  to  each  other  from  the  peaks— 
They  are  flapping  their  passionate  wings  in  the  sunlight, 
Eager  for  battle! 

[168! 


DRAW  THE  SWORD,  O  REPUBLIC! 

As  a  strong  man  nurses  his  youth 

To  the  day  of  trial; 

But  as  a  strong  man  nurses  it  no  more 

On  the  day  of  trial, 

But  exults  and  cries:  For  Victory,  0  Strength! 

And  for  the  glory  of  my  City,  O  treasured  youth! 

You  shall  neither  save  your  youth, 

Nor  hoard  your  strength 

Beyond  this  hour,  O  Republic! 

For  you  have  sworn 

By  the  passion  of  the  Gaul, 

And  the  strength  of  the  Teuton, 

And  the  will  of  the  Saxon, 

And  the  hunger  of  the  Poor, 

That   the  white  man    shall  lie    down   by    the    black 

man, 

And  by  the  yellow  man, 
And    all  men   shall   be    one  spirit,   as  they   are    one 

flesh, 

Through  Wisdom,  Liberty  and  Democracy. 
And  forasmuch  as  the  earth  cannot  hold 
Aught  beside  them, 

You  have  dedicated  the  earth,  O  Republic, 
To  Wisdom,  Liberty  and  Democracy! 

By  the  Power  that  drives  the  soul  to  Freedom, 
And  by  the  Power  that  makes  us  love  our  fellows, 


TOWARD  THE  GULF 

And  by  the  Power  that  comforts  us  in  death, 
Dying  for  great  races  to  come — 
Draw  the  sword,  O  Republic! 
Draw  the  Sword ! 


[170] 


DEAR  OLD  DICK 

(Dedicated  to  Fachel  Lindsay  and  in  Memory  of  Richard  E.  Burke) 

Said  dear  old  Dick 

To  the  colored  waiter: 

"Here,  George!  be  quick 

Roast  beef  and  a  potato. 

I'm  due  at  the  courthouse  at  half-past  one, 

You  black  old  scoundrel,  get  a  move  on  you! 

I  want  a  pot  of  coffee  and  a  graham  bun. 

This  vinegar  decanter'll  make  a  groove  on  you, 

You  black-faced  mandril,  you  grinning  baboon — " 

"Yas  sah!    Yas  sah,"  answered  the  coon. 

"Now  don't  you  talk  back,"  said  dear  old  Dick, 

"Go  and  get  my  dinner  or  I'll  show  you  a  trick 

With  a  plate,  a  tumbler  or  a  silver  castor, 

Fuliginous  monkey,  sired  by  old  Nick." 

And  the  nigger  all  the  time  was  moving  round  the  table, 

Rattling  the  silver  things  faster  and  faster — 

"Yes  sah!    Yas  sah,  soon  as  I'se  able 

I'll  bring  yoJ  dinnah  as  shore  as  yo's  bawn." 

"Quit  talking  about  it;  hurry  and  be  gone, 

You  low-down  nigger,"  said  dear  old  Dick. 

Then  I  said  to  my  friend:  "Suppose  he'd  up  and  stick 
A  knife  in  your  side  for  raggin'  him  so  hard; 


TOWARD  THE  GULF 

Or  how  would  you  relish  some  spit  in  your  broth? 

Or  a  little  Paris  green  in  your  cheese  for  chard? 

Or  something  in  your  coffee  to  make  your  stomach 

froth? 

Or  a  bit  of  asafoetida  hidden  in  your  pie? 
That's  a  gentlemanly  nigger  or  he'd  black  your  eye." 

Then  dear  old  Dick  made  this  long  reply: 

"You  know,  I  love  a  nigger, 

And  I  love  this  nigger. 

I  met  him  first  on  the  train  from  California 

Out  of  Kansas  City;  in  the  morning  early 

I  walked  through  the  diner,  feeling  upset 

For  a  cup  of  coffee,  looking  rather  surly. 

And  there  sat  this  nigger  by  a  table  all  dressed, 

Waiting  for  the  time  to  serve  the  omelet, 

Buttered  toast  and  coffee  to  the  passengers. 

And  this  is  what  he  said  in  a  fine  southern  way: 

'Good  mawnin,'  sah,  I  hopes  yo'  had  yo'  rest, 

I'm  glad  to  see  you  on  dis  sunny  day/ 

Now  think!  here's  a  human  who  has  no  other  cares 

Except  to  please  the  white  man,  serve  him  when  he's 

starving, 

And  who  has  as  much  fun  when  he  sees  you  carving 
The  sirloin  as  you  do,  does  this  black  man. 
Just  think  for  a  minute,  how  the  negroes  excel, 
Can  you  beat  them  with  a  banjo  or  a  broiling  pan? 
There's  music  in  their  soul  as  original 


DEAR  OLD  DICK 

As  any  breed  of  people  in  the  whole  wide  earth; 
They're  elemental  hope,  heartiness,  mirth. 
There  are  only  two  things  real  American: 
One  is  Christian  Science,  the  other  is  the  nigger. 
Think  it  over  for  yourself  and  see  if  you  can  figure 
Anything  beside  that  is  not  imitation 
Of  something  in  Europe  in  this  hybrid  nation. 
Return  to  this  globe  five  hundred  years  hence — 
You'll  see  how  the  fundamental  color  of  the  coon 
In  art,  in  music,  has  altered  our  tune; 
We  are  destined  to  bow  to  their  influence; 
There's  a  whole  cult  of  music  in  Dixie  alone, 
And  that  is  America  put  into  tone." 

And  dear  old  Dick  gathered  speed  and  said: 

"Sometimes  through  Dvorak  a  vision  arises 

To  the  words  of  Merneptah  whose  hands  were  red: 

'I  shall  live,  I  shall  live,  I  shall  grow,  I  shall  grow, 

I  shall  wake  up  in  peace,  I  shall  thrill  with  the  glow 

Of  the  life  of  Temu,  the  god  who  prizes 

Favorite  souls  and  the  souls  of  kings/ 

Now  these  are  the  words,  and  here  is  the  dream, 

No  wonder  you  think  I  am  seeing  things: 

The  desert  of  Egypt  shimmers  in  the  gleam 

Of  the  noonday  sun  on  my  dazzled  sight. 

And  a  giant  negro  as  black  as  night 

Is  walking  by  a  camel  in  a  caravan. 

His  great  back  glistens  with  the  streaming. sweat. 

[-73  I 


TOWARD  THE  GULF 

The  camel  is  ridden  by  a  light-faced  man, 

A  Greek  perhaps,  or  Arabian. 

And  this  giant  negro  is  rhythmically  swaying 

With  the  rhythm  of  the  camel's  neck  up  and  down. 

He  seems  to  be  singing,  rollicking,  playing; 

His  ivory  teeth  are  glistening,  the  Greek  is  listening 

To  the  negro  keeping  time  like  a  tabouret. 

And  what  cares  he  for  Memphis  town, 

Merneptah  the  bloody,  or  Books  of  the  Dead, 

Pyramids,  philosophies  of  madness  or  dread? 

A  tune  is  in  his  heart,  a  reality: 

The  camel,  the  desert  are  things  that  be, 

He's  a  negro  slave,  but  his  heart  is  free." 

Just  then  the  colored  waiter  brought  in  the  dinner. 

"Get  a  hustle  on  you,  you  miserable  sinner," 

Said  dear  old  Dick  to  the  colored  waiter. 

"Heah's  a  nice  piece  of  beef  and  a  great  big  potato. 

I  hopes  yo'll  enjoy  'em  sah,  yas  I  do; 

Heah's  black  mustahd  greens,  'specially  for  yo', 

And  a  fine  piece  of  jowl  that  I  swiped  and  took 

From  a  dish  set  by,  by  the  git-away  cook. 

I  hope  yo'll  enjoy  'em,  sah,  yas  I  do." 

"Well,  George,"  Dick  said,  "if  Gabriel  blew 

His  horn  this  minute,  you'd  up  and  ascend 

To  wait  on  St.  Peter  world  without  end." 


174 


THE  ROOM  OF  MIRRORS 

I  saw  a  room  where  many  feet  were  dancing. 

The  ceiling  and  the  wall  were  mirrors  glancing 

Both  flames  of  candles  and  the  heaven's  light, 

Though  windows  there  were  none  for  air  or  flight. 

The  room  was  in  a  form  polygonal 

Reached  by  a  little  door  and  narrow  hall. 

One  could  behold  them  enter  for  the  dance, 

And  waken  as  it  were  out  of  a  trance, 

And  either  singly  or  with  some  one  whirl: 

The  old,  the  young,  full  livers,  boy  and  girl. 

And  every  panel  of  the  room  was  just 

A  mirrored  door  through  which  a  hand  was  thrust 

Here,  there,  around  the  room,  a  soul  to  seize 

Whereat  a  scream  would  rise,  but  no  surcease 

Of  music  or  of  dancing,  save  by  him 

Drawn  through  the  mirrored  panel  to  the  dim 

And  unknown  space  behind  the  flashing  mirrors, 

And  by  his  partner  struck  through  by  the  terrors 

Of  sudden  loss. 

And  looking  I  could  see 
That  scarcely  any  dancer  here  could  free 
His  eyes  from  off  the  mirrors,  but  would  gaze 
Upon  himself  or  others,  till  a  craze 

[175] 


TOWARD  THE  GULF 

Shone  in  his  eyes  thus  to  anticipate 

The  hand  that  took  each  dancer  soon  or  late. 

Some  analyzed  themselves,  some  only  glanced, 

Some     stared     and     paled     and     then    more     madly 

danced. 

One  dancer  only  never  looked  at  all. 
He  seemed  soul  captured  by  the  carnival. 
There  were  so  many  dancers  there  he  loved, 
He  was  so  greatly  by  the  music  moved, 
He  had  no  time  to  study  his  own  face 
There  in  the  mirrors  as  from  place  to  place 
He  quickly  danced. 

Until  I  saw  at  last 

This  dancer  by  the  whirling  dancers  cast 
Face  full  against  a  mirrored  panel  where 
Before  he  could  look  at  himself  or  stare 
He  plunged  through  to  the  other  side — and  quick, 
As  water  closes  when  you  lift  the  stick, 
The  mirrored  panel  swung  in  place  and  left 
No  trace  of  him,  as  'twere  a  magic  trick. 
But  all  his  partners  thus  so  soon  bereft 
Went  dancing  to  the  music  as  before. 
But  I  saw  faces  in  that  mirrored  door 
Anatomizing  their  forced  smiles  and  watching 
Their  faces  over  shoulders,  even  matching 
Their  terror  with  each  other's  to  repress 
A  growing  fear  in  seeing  it  was  less 


THE  ROOM  OF  MIRRORS 

Than  some  one  else's,  or  to  ease  despair 

By  looking  in  a  face  who  did  not  care, 

While  watching  for  the  hand  that  through  some  door 

Caught  a  poor  dancer  from  the  dancing  floor 

With  every  time-beat  of  the  orchestra. 

What  is  this  room  of  mirrors?    Who  can  say? 


177] 


THE  LETTER 

What  does  one  gain  by  living?    What  by  dying 

Is  lost  worth  having?    What  the  daily  things 

Lived  through  together  make  them  worth  the  while 

For  their  sakes  or  for  life's  ?     Where's  the  denying 

Of  souls  through  separation?    There's  your  smile! 

And  your  hands'  touch!    And  the  long  day  that  brings 

Half  uttered  nothings  of  delight!    But  then 

Now  that  I  see  you  not,  and  shall  again 

Touch  you  no  more — memory  can  possess 

Your  soul's  essential  self,  and  none  the  less 

You  live  with  me.    I  therefore  write  to  you 

This  letter  just  as  if  you  were  away 

Upon  a  journey,  or  a  holiday; 

And  so  I'll  put  down  everything  that's  new 

In  this  secluded  village,  since  you  left.  .  .  . 

Now  let  me  think!    Well,  then,  as  I  remember, 

After  ten  days  the  lilacs  burst  in  bloom. 

We  had  spring  all  at  once — the  long  December 

Gave  way  to  sunshine.    Then  we  swept  your  room, 

And  laid  your  things  away.     And  then  one  morning 

I  saw  the  mother  robin  giving  warning 

To  little  bills  stuck  just  above  the  rim 

Of  that  nest  which  you  watched  while  being  built, 

Near  where  she  sat,  upon  a  leafless  limb, 


THE  LETTER 

With  folded  wings  against  an  April  rain. 

On  June  the  tenth  Edward  and  Julia  married, 

I  did  not  go  for  fear  of  an  old  pain. 

I  was  out  on  the  porch  as  they  drove  by, 

Coming  from  church.    I  think  I  never  scanned 

A  girl's  face  with  such  sunny  smiles  upon  it 

Showing  beneath  the  roses  on  her  bonnet — 

I  went  into  the  house  to  have  a  cry. 

A  few  days  later  Kimbrough  lost  his  wife. 

Between  housework  and  hoeing  in  the  garden 

I  read  Sir  Thomas  More  and  Goethe's  life. 

My  heart  was  numb  and  still  I  had  to  harden 

All  memory  or  die.    And  just  the  same 

As  when  you  sat  beside  the  window,  passed 

Larson,  the  cobbler,  hollow-chested,  lamed. 

He  did  not  die  till  late  November  came. 

Things  did  not  come  as  Doctor  Jones  forecast, 

Twas  June  when  Mary  Morgan  had  her  child. 

Her  husband  was  in  Monmouth  at  the  time. 

She  had  no  milk,  the  baby  is  not  well. 

The  Baptist  Church  has  got  a  fine  new  bell. 

And  after  harvest  Joseph  Clifford  tiled 

His  bottom  land.    Then  Judy  Heaton's  crime 

Has  shocked  the  village,  for  the  monster  killed 

Glendora  Wilson's  father  at  his  door — 

A  daughter's  name  was  why  the  blood  was  spilled. 

1  could  go  on,  but  wherefore  tell  you  more? 

The  world  of  men  has  gone  its  olden  way 

[179] 


TOWARD  THE  GULF 

With  war  in  Europe  and  the  same  routine 

Of  life  among  us  that  you  knew  when  here. 

This  gossip  is  not  idle,  since  I  say 

By  means  of  it  what  I  would  tell  you,  dear: 

I  have  been  near  you,  dear,  for  I  have  been 

Not  with  you  through  these  things,  but  in  despite 

Of  living  them  without  you,  therefore  near 

In  spirit  and  in  memory  with  you. 


Do  you  remember  that  delightful  Inn 

At  Chester  and  the  Roman  wall,  and  how 

We  walked  from  Avon  clear  to  Kenilworth  ? 

And  afterward  when  you  and  I  came  down 

To  London,  I  forsook  the  murky  town, 

And  left  you  to  quaint  ways  and  crowded  places, 

While  I  went  on  to  Putney  just  to  see 

Old  Swinburne  and  to  look  into  his  face's 

Changeable  lights  and  shadows  and  to  seize  on 

A  finer  thing  than  any  verse  he  wrote? 

(Oh  beautiful  illusions  of  our  youth !) 

He  did  not  see  me  gladly.    Talked  of  treason 

To  England's  greatness.    What  was  Camden  like? 

Did  old  Walt  Whitman  smoke  or  did  he  drink? 

And  Longfellow  was  sweet,  but  couldn't  think. 

His  mood  was  crusty.    Lowell  made  him  laugh! 

Meantime  Watts-Dunton  came  and  broke  in  half 

My  visit,  so  I  left. 

FiSol 


THE  LETTER 

The  thing  was  this: 

None  of  this  talk  was  Swinburne  any  more 
Than  some  child  of  his  loins  would  take  his  hair, 
Eyes,  skin,  from  him  in  some  pangenesis, — 
His  flesh  was  nothing  but  a  poor  affair, 
A  channel  for  the  eternal  stream — his  flesh 
Gave  nothing  closer,  mind  you,  than  his  book, 
But  rather  blurred  it;  even  his  eyes'  look 
Confused  "Madonna  Mia"  from  its  fresh 
And  liquid  meaning.    So  I  knew  at  last 
His  real  immortal  self  is  in  his  verse. 


Since  you  have  gone  I've  thought  of  this  so  much, 
I  cannot  lose  you  in  this  universe — 
I  first  must  lose  myself.    The  essential  touch 
Of  soul  possession  lies  not  in  the  walk 
Of  daily  life  on  earth,  nor  in  the  talk 
Of  daily  things,  nor  in  the  sight  of  eyes 
Looking  in  other  eyes,  nor  daily  bread 
Broken  together,  nor  the  hour  of  love 
When  flesh  surrenders  depths  of  things  divine 
Beyond  all  vision,  as  they  were  the  dream 
Of  other  planets,  but  without  these  even 
In  death  and  separation,  there  is  heaven: 
By  just  that  unison  and  its  memory 
Which  brought  our  lips  together.    To  be  free 
From  accidents  of  being,  to  be  freeing 
[181] 


TOWARD  THE  GULF 

The  soul  from  trammels  on  essential  being, 
Is  to  possess  the  loved  one.    I  have  strayed 
Into  the  only  heaven  God  has  made: 
That's  where  we  know  each  other  as  we  are, 
In  the  bright  ether  of  some  quiet  star, 
Communing  as  two  memories  with  each  other. 


[182 


CANTICLE  OF  THE  RACE 

SONG   OF   MEN 

How  beautiful  are  the  bodies  of  men — 

The  agonists! 

Their  hearts  beat  deep  as  a  brazen  gong 

For  their  strength's  behests. 

Their  arms  are  lithe  as  a  seasoned  thong 

In  games  or  tests 

When  they  run  or  box  or  swim  the  long 

Sea-waves  crests 

With  their  slender  legs,  and  their  hips  so  strong, 

And  their  rounded  chests. 

I  know  a  youth  who  raises  his  arms 

Over  his  head. 

He  laughs  and  stretches  and  flouts  alarms 

Of  flood  or  fire. 

He  springs  renewed  from  a  lusty  bed 

To  his  youth's  desire. 

He  drowses,  for  April  flames  outspread 

In  his  soul's  attire. 

The  strength  of  men  is  for  husbandry 
Of  woman's  flesh: 


TOWARD  THE  GULF 

Worker,  soldier,  magistrate 

Of  city  or  realm; 

Artist,  builder,  wrestling  Fate 

Lest  it  overwhelm 

The  brood  or  the  race,  or  the  cherished  state. 

They  sing  at  the  helm 

When  the  waters  roar  and  the  waves  are  great, 

And  the  gale  is  fresh. 

There  are  two  miracles,  women  and  men — 

Yea,  four  there  be: 

A  woman's  flesh,  and  the  strength  of  a  man, 

And  God's  decree. 

And  a  babe  from  the  womb  in  a  little  span 

Ere  the  month  be  ten. 

Their  rapturous  arms  entwine  and  cling 

In  the  depths  of  night; 

He  hunts  for  her  face  for  his  wondering, 

And  her  eyes  are  bright. 

A  woman's  flesh  is  soil,  but  the  spring 

Is  man's  delight. 

SONG   OF    WOMEN 

How  beautiful  is  the  flesh  of  women — 
Their  throats,  their  breasts! 
My  wonder  is  a  flame  which  burns, 
A  flame  which  rests; 


CANTICLE  OF  THE  RACE 

It  is  a  flame  which  no  wind  turns, 
And  a  flame  which  quests. 

I  know  a  woman  who  has  red  lips, 

Like  coals  which  are  fanned. 

Her  throat  is  tied  narcissus,  it  dips 

From  her  white-rose  chin. 

Her  throat  curves  like  a  cloud  to  the  land 

Where  her  breasts  begin. 

I  close  my  eyes  when  I  put  my  hand 

On  her  breast's  white  skin. 

The  flesh  of  women  is  like  the  sky 

When  bare  is  the  moon: 

Rhythm  of  backs,  hollow  of  necks, 

And  sea-shell  loins. 

I  know  a  woman  whose  splendors  vex 

Where  the  flesh  joins — 

A  slope  of  light  and  a  circumflex 

Of  clefts  and  coigns. 

She  thrills  like  the  air  when  silence  wrecks 

An  ended  tune. 

These  are  the  things  not  made  by  hands  in  the  earth 

Water  and  fire, 

The  air  of  heaven,  and  springs  afresh, 

And  love's  desire. 

And  a  thing  not  made  is  a  woman's  flesh, 


TOWARD  THE  GULF 

Sorrow  and  mirth! 

She  tightens  the  strings  on  the  lyric  lyre, 

And  she  drips  the  wine. 

Her  breasts  bud  out  as  pink  and  nesh 

As  buds  on  the  vine: 

For  fire  and  water  and  air  are  flesh, 

And  love  is  the  shrine. 


SONG  OF  THE  HUMAN  SPIRIT 

How  beautiful  is  the  human  spirit 

In  its  vase  of  clay! 

It  takes  no  thought  of  the  chary  dole 

Of  the  light  of  day. 

It  labors  and  loves,  as  it  were  a  soul 

Whom  the  gods  repay 

With  length  of  life,  and  a  golden  goal 

At  the  end  of  the  way. 

There  are  souls  I  know  who  arch  a  dome, 

And  tunnel  a  hill. 

They  chisel  in  marble  and  fashion  in  chrome, 

And  measure  the  sky. 

They  find  the  good  and  destroy  the  ill, 

And  they  bend  and  ply 

The  laws  of  nature  out  of  a  will 

While  the  fates  deny. 

[186] 


CANTICLE  OF  THE  RACE 

I  wonder  and  worship  the  human  spirit 

When  I  behold 

Numbers  and  symbols,  and  how  they  reach 

Through  steel  and  gold; 

A  harp,  a  battle-ship,  thought  and  speech, 

And  an  hour  foretold. 

It  ponders  its  nature  to  turn  and  teach, 

And  itself  to  mould. 

The  human  spirit  is  God,  no  doubt, 

Is  flesh  made  the  word: 

Jesus,  Beethoven  and  Raphael, 

And  the  souls  who  heard 

Beyond  the  rim  of  the  world  the  swell 

Of  an  ocean  stirred 

By  a  Power  on  the  waters  inscrutable. 

There  are  souls  who  gird 

Their  loins  in  faith  that  the  world  is  well, 

In  a  faith  unblurred. 

How  beautiful  is  the  human  spirit — 

The  flesh  made  the  word ! 


BLACK  EAGLE  RETURNS  TO  ST.  JOE 

This  way  and  that  way  measuring, 

Sighting  from  tree  to  tree, 

And  from  the  bend  of  the  river. 

This  must  be  the  place  where  Black  Eagle 

Twelve  hundred  moons  ago 

Stood  with  folded  arms, 

While  a  Pottawatomie  father 

Plunged  a  knife  in  his  heart, 

For  the  murder  of  a  son. 

Black  Eagle  stood  with  folded  arms, 

Slim,  erect,  firm,  unafraid, 

Looking  into  the  distance,  across  the  river. 

Then  the  knife  flashed, 

Then  the  knife  crashed  through  his  ribs 

And  into  his  heart. 

And  like  a  wounded  eagle's  wings 

His  arms  fell,  slowly  unfolding, 

And  he  sank  to  death  without  a  groan! 

And  my  name  is  Black  Eagle  too. 
And  I  am  of  the  spirit, 
And  perhaps  of  the  blood 
Of  that  Black  Eagle  of  old. 
I  am  naked  and  alone, 
[188] 


BLACK  EAGLE  RETURNS  TO  ST.  JOE 

But  very  happy; 

Being  rich  in  spirit  and  in  memories. 
I  am  very  strong. 
I  am  very  proud, 
Brave,  revengeful,  passionate. 
No  longer  deceived,  keen  of  eye, 
Wise  in  the  ways  of  the  tribes: 
A  knower  of  winds,  mists,  rains,  snows,  changes. 
A  knower  of  balsams,  simples,  blossoms,  grains. 
A  knower  of  poisonous  leaves,   deadly  fungus,   ber 
ries. 

A  knower  of  harmless  snakes, 
And  the  livid  copperhead. 
Lastly  a  knower  of  the  spirits, 
For  there  are  many  spirits: 
Spirits  of  hidden  lakes, 
And  of  pine  forests. 
Spirits  of  the  dunes, 
And  of  forested  valleys. 
Spirits  of  rivers,  mountains,  fields, 
And  great  distances. 
There  are  many  spirits 
Under  the  Great  Spirit. 
Him  I  know  not. 
Him  I  only  feel 
With  closed  eyes. 

Or  when  I  look  from  my  bed  of  moss  by  the  river 
At  a  sky  of  stars, 

[189] 


TOWARD  THE  GULF 

When  the  leaves  of  the  oak  are  asleep. 
I  will  fill  this  birch  bark  full  of  writing 
And  hide  it  in  the  cleft  of  an  oak, 
Here  where  Black  Eagle  fell. 
Decipher  my  story  who  can: 

When  I  was  a  boy  of  fourteen 

Tobacco  Jim,  who  owned  many  dogs, 

Rose  from  the  door  of  his  tent 

And  came  to  where  we  were  running, 

Young  Coyote,  Rattler,  Little  Fox, 

And  said  to  me  in  their  hearing: 

"You  are  the  fastest  of  all. 

Now  run  again,  and  let  me  see. 

And  if  you  can  run 

I  will  make  you  my  runner, 

I  will  care  for  you, 

And  you  shall  have  pockets  of  gold."  .  .  . 

And  then  we  ran. 

And  the  others  lagged  behind  me, 

Like  smoke  behind  the  wind. 

But    the    faces    of    Young    Coyote,    Rattler,    Little 

Fox 

Grew  dark. 

They  nudged  each  other. 
They  looked  side-ways, 
Toeing  the  earth  in  shame.  .  .  . 


BLACK  EAGLE  RETURNS  TO  ST.  JOE 

Then  Tobacco  Jim  took  me  and  trained  me. 

And  he  went  here  and  there 

To  find  a  match. 

And  to  get  wagers  of  ponies,  nuggets  of  copper, 

And  nuggets  of  gold. 

And  at  last  the  match  was  made. 

It  was  under  a  sky  as  blue  as  the  cup  of  a  harebell, 

It  was  by  a  red  and  yellow  mountain, 

It  was  by  a  great  river 

That  we  ran. 

Hundreds  of  Indians  came  to  the  race. 

They  babbled,  smoked  and  quarreled. 

And  everyone  carried  a  knife, 

And  everyone  carried  a  gun. 

And  we  runners — 

How  young  we  were  and  unknowing 

What  the  race  meant  to  them! 

For  we  saw  nothing  but  the  track, 

We  saw  nothing  but  our  trainers 

And  the  starters. 

And  I  saw  no  one  but  Tobacco  Jim. 

But  the  Indians  and  the  squaws  saw  much  else, 

They  thought  of  the  race  in  such  different  ways 

From  the  way  we  thought  of  it. 

For  with  me  it  was  honor, 

It  was  triumph, 

It  was  fame. 

[191] 


TOWARD  THE  GULF 

It  was  the  tender  looks  of  Indian  maidens 

Wherever  I  went. 

But  now  I  know  that  to  Tobacco  Jim, 

And  the  old  fathers  and  young  bucks 

The  race  meant  jugs  of  whiskey, 

And  new  guns. 

It  meant  a  squaw, 

A  pony, 

Or  some  rise  in  the  life  of  the  tribe. 

So  the  shot  of  the  starter  rang  at  last, 

And  we  were  off. 

I  wore  a  band  of  yellow  around  my  brow 

With  an  eagle's  feather  in  it, 

And  a  red  strap  for  my  loins. 

And  as  I  ran  the  feather  fluttered  and  sang: 

"You  are  the  swiftest  runner,  Black  Eagle, 

They  are  all  behind  you." 

And  they  were  all  behind  me, 

As  the  cloud's  shadow  is  behind 

The  bend  of  the  grass  under  the  wind. 

But  as  we  neared  the  end  of  the  race 

The  onlookers,  the  gamblers,  the  old  Indians, 

And  the  young  bucks, 

Crowded  close  to  the  track — 

I  fell  and  lost. 

Next  day  Tobacco  Jim  went  about 
Lamenting  his  losses. 

[192] 


BLACK  EAGLE  RETURNS  TO  ST.  JOE 

And  when  I  told  him  they  tripped  me 

He  cursed  them. 

But  later  he  went  about  asking  in  whispers 

If  I  was  wise  enough  to  throw  the  race. 

Then  suddenly  he  disappeared. 

And  we  heard  rumors  of  his  riches, 

Of  his  dogs  and  ponies, 

And  of  the  joyous  life  he  was  leading. 

Then  my  father  took  me  to  New  Mexico, 

And  here  my  life  changed. 

I  was  no  longer  the  runner, 

I  had  forgotten  it  all. 

I  had  become  a  wise  Indian. 

I  could  do  many  things. 

I  could  read  the  white  man's  writing 

And  write  it. 

And  Indians  flocked  to  me: 

Billy  the  Pelican,  Hooked  Nosed  Weasel, 

Hungry  Mole,  Big  Jawed  Prophet, 

And  many  others. 

They  flocked  to  me,  for  I  could  help  them. 

For  the  Great  Spirit  may  pick  a  chief, 

Or  a  leader. 

But  sometimes  the  chief  rises 

By  using  wise  Indians  like  me 

Who  are  rich  in  gifts  and  powers  .  .  . 

[193] 


TOWARD  THE  GULF 

But  at  least  it  is  true: 

All  little  great  Indians 

Who  are  after  ponies, 

Jugs  of  whiskey  and  soft  blankets 

Gain  their  ends  through  the  gifts  and  powers 

Of  wise  Indians  like  me. 

They  come  to  you  and  ask  you  to  do  this, 

And  to  do  that. 

And  you  do  it,  because  it  would  be  small 

Not  to  do  it. 

And  until  all  the  cards  are  laid  on  the  table 

You  do  not  see  what  they  were  after, 

And  then  you  see: 

They  have  won  your  friend  away; 

They  have  stolen  your  hill; 

They  have  taken  your  place  at  the  feast; 

They  are  wearing  your  feathers; 

They  have  much  gold. 

And  you  are  tired,  and  without  laughter. 

And  they  drift  away  from  you, 

As  Tobacco  Jim  went  away  from  me. 

And  you  hear  of  them  as  rich  and  great. 

And  then  you  move  on  to  another  place, 

And  another  life. 

Billy  the  Pelican  has  built  him  a  board  house 

And  lives  in  Guthrie. 

Hook  Nosed  Weasel  is  a  Justice  of  the  Peace. 


BLACK  EAGLE  RETURNS  TO  ST.  JOE 

Hungry  Mole  had  his  picture  in  the  Denver  News; 

He  is  helping  the  government 

To  reclaim  stolen  lands. 

(Many  have  told  me  it  was  Hungry  Mole 

Who  tripped  me  in  the  race.) 

Big  Jawed  Prophet  is  very  rich. 

He  has  disappeared  as  an  eagle 

With  a  rabbit. 

And  I  have  come  back  here 

Where  twelve  hundred  moons  ago 

Black  Eagle  before  me 

Had  the  knife  run  through  his  ribs 

And  through  his  heart.  .  .  . 

I  will  hide  this  writing 

In  the  cleft  of  the  oak 

By  this  bend  in  the  river. 

Let  him  read  who  can: 

I  was  a  swift  runner  whom  they  tripped. 


[195] 


MY  LIGHT  WITH  YOURS 

I 

When  the  sea  has  devoured  the  ships, 

And  the  spires  and  the  towers 

Have  gone  back  to  the  hills. 

And  all  the  cities 

Are  one  with  the  plains  again. 

And  the  beauty  of  bronze, 

And  the  strength  of  steel 

Are  blown  over  silent  continents, 

As  the  desert  sand  is  blown — 

My  dust  with  yours  forever. 

II 

When  folly  and  wisdom  are  no  more, 

And  fire  is  no  more, 

Because  man  is  no  more; 

When  the  dead  world  slowly  spinning 

Drifts  and  falls  through  the  void — 

My  light  with  yours 

In  the  Light  of  Lights  forever! 


[196] 


THE  BLIND 

Amid  the  din  of  cars  and  automobiles, 
At  the  corner  of  a  towering  pile  of  granite, 
Under  the  city's  soaring  brick  and  stone, 
Where  multitudes  go  hurrying  by,  you  stand 
With  eyeless  sockets  playing  on  a  flute. 
And  an  old  woman  holds  the  cup  for  you, 
Wherein  a  curious  passer  by  at  times 
Casts  a  poor  coin. 

You  are  so  blind  you  cannot  see  us  men 

As  walking  trees! 

I  fancy  from  the  tune 

You  play  upon  the  flute,  you  have  a  vision 

Of  leafy  trees  along  a  country  road-side, 

Where  wheat  is  growing  and  the  meadow-larks 

Rise  singing  in  the  sun-shine! 

In  your  darkness 

You  may  see  such  things  playing  on  your  flute 

Here  in  the  granite  ways  of  mad  Chicago! 

And  here's  another  on  a  farther  corner, 

With  head  thrown  back  as  if  he  searched  the  skies. 

He's  selling  evening  papers,  what's  to  him 

The  flaring  headlines?    Yet  he  calls  the  news. 

[1971 


TOWARD  THE  GULF 

That  is  his  flute,  perhaps,  for  one  can  call, 
Or  play  the  flute  in  blindness. 

Yet  I  think 

It's  neither  news  nor  music  with  these  blind  ones- 

Rather  the  hope  of  re-created  eyes, 

And  a  light  out  of  death ! 

"How  can  it  be,"  I  hear  them  over  and  over, 

"There  never  shall  be  eyes  for  me  again?" 


[198] 


I  PAY  MY  DEBT  FOR  LAFAYETTE  AND 
ROCHAMBEAU" 

— His  Own  Words 
IN  MEMORY  OF  KIFFIN  ROCKWELL 


Eagle,  whose  fearless 
Flight  in  vast  spaces 
Clove  the  inane, 
While  we  stood  tearless, 
White  with  rapt  faces 
In  wonder  and  pain.  .  .  . 

Heights  could  not  awe  you, 
Depths  could  not  stay  you. 
Anguished  we  saw  you, 
Saw  Death  way-lay  you 
Where  the  storm  flings 
Black  clouds  to  thicken 
Round  France's  defender! 
Archangel  stricken 
From  ramparts  of  splendor- 
Shattered  your  wings!  .  .  . 

But  Lafayette  called  you, 
Rochambeau  beckoned. 

[199] 


TOWARD  THE  GULF 

Duty  enthralled  you. 

For  France  you  had  reckoned 

Her  gift  and  your  debt. 

Dull  hearts  could  harden 

Half-gods  could  palter. 

For  you  never  pardon 

If  Liberty's  altar 

You  chanced  to  forget.  .  .  . 

Stricken  archangel! 

Ramparts  of  splendor 

Keep  you,  evangel 

Of  souls  who  surrender 

No  banner  unfurled 

For  ties  ever  living, 

Where  Freedom  has  bound  them. 

Praise  and  thanksgiving 

For  love  which  has  crowned  them — 

Love  frees  the  world !  . 


[200] 


CHRISTMAS  AT  INDIAN  POINT 

Who  is  that  calling  through  the  night, 
A  wail  that  dies  when  the  wind  roars? 
We  heard  it  first  on  Shipley's  Hill, 
It  faded  out  at  Comingoer's. 

Along  five  miles  of  wintry  road 
A  horseman  galloped  with  a  cry, 
"Twas  two  o'clock,"  said  Herman  Pointer, 
"When  I  heard  clattering  hoofs  go  by." 

"I  flung  the  winder  up  to  listen; 
I  heerd  him  there  on  Gordon's  Ridge; 
I  heerd  the  loose  boards  bump  and  rattle 
When  he  went  over  Houghton's  Bridge." 

Said  Roger  Ragsdale:  "I  was  doctorin' 
A  heifer  in  the  barn,  and  then 
My  boy  says:  'Pap,  that's  Billy  Paris.' 
*  There,'  says  my  boy,  it  is  again." 

"Says  I:  'That  kain't  be  Billy  Paris, 
We  seed  'im  at  the  Christmas  tree. 
It's  two  o'clock,'  says  I,  'and  Billy 
I  seed  go  home  with  Emily.' 

[201] 


TOWARD  THE  GULF 

"  He  is  too  old  for  galavantin' 
Upon  a  night  like  this,'  says  I. 
'Well,  pap/  says  he,  'I  know  that  frosty, 
Good-natured  huskiness  in  that  cry.' 

"'  It  kain't  be  Billy/  says  I,  swabbin' 
The  heifer's  tongue  and  mouth  with  brine, 
'I  never  thought — it  makes  me  shiver, 
And  goose-flesh  up  and  down  the  spine.'" 

Said  Doggie  Traylor:  "When  I  heard  it 
I  'lowed  'twas  Pin  Hook's  rowdy  new  'uns. 
Them  Cashner  boys  was  at  the  schoolhouse 
Drinkin'  there  at  the  Christmas  doin's." 

Said  Pete  McCue:  "I  lit  a  candle 

And  held  it  up  to  the  winder  pane. 

But  when  I  heerd  again  the  holler 

'Twere  half-way  down  the  Bowman  Lane." 

Said  Andy  Ensley:  "First  I  knowed 
I  thought  he'd  thump  the  door  away. 
I  hopped  from  bed,  and  says,  'Who  is  it?' 
'0,  Emily,'  I  heard  him  say. 

"And  there  stood  Billy  Paris  tremblin', 
His  face  so  white,  he  looked  so  queer. 
'O  Andy' — and  his  voice  went  broken. 
'Come  in,'  says  I,  'and  have  a  cheer.' 

[202] 


CHRISTMAS  AT  INDIAN  POINT 

"'Sit  by  the  fire/  I  kicked  the  logs  up, 
'What  brings  you  here? — I  would  be  told/ 
Says  he.    'My  hand  just  .  .  .  happened  near  hers, 
It  teched  her  hand  .  .  .  and  it  war  cold. 

'"We  got  back  from  the  Christmas  doin's 
And  went  to  bed,  and  she  was  sayin', 
(The  clock  struck  ten)  if  it  keeps  snowin' 
To-morrow  there'll  be  splendid  sleighinY 

"'My  hand  teched  hers,  the  clock  struck  two, 
And  then  I  thought  I  heerd  her  moan. 
It  war  the  wind,  I  guess,  for  Emily 
War  lyin'  dead.  .  .  .  She's  thar  alone/ 

"I  left  him  then  to  call  my  woman 
To  tell  her  that  her  mother  died. 
When  we  come  back  his  voice  was  steady, 
The  big  tears  in  his  eyes  was  dried. 

"He  just  sot  there  and  quiet  like 
Talked  'bout  the  fishin'  times  they  had, 
And  said  for  her  to  die  on  Christmas 
Was  somethin'  'bout  it  made  him  glad. 

"  He  grew  so  cam  he  almost  skeered  us. 
Says  he:  'It's  a  fine  Christmas  over  there/ 
Says  he:  'She  was  the  lovingest  woman 
That  ever  walked  this  Vale  of  Care/ 
[203] 


TOWARD  THE  GULF 

"Says  he:  'She  allus  laughed  and  sang, 
I  never  heerd  her  once  complain/ 
Says  he:  'It's  not  so  bad  a  Christmas 
When  she  can  go  and  have  no  pain/ 

"Says  he:  'The  Christmas's  good  for  her.' 
Says  he:  ...  'Not  very  good  for  me/ 
He  hid  his  face  then  in  his  muffler 
And  sobbed  and  sobbed,  '0  Emily/" 


204 


WIDOW  LA  RUE 

I 

What  will  happen,  Widow  La  Rue? 

For  last  night  at  three  o'clock 

You  woke  and  saw  by  your  window  again 

Amid  the  shadowy  locust  grove 

The  phantom  of  the  old  soldier: 

A  shadow  of  blue,  like  mercury  light — 

What  will  happen,  Widow  La  Rue? 

***** 

What  may  not  happen 

In  this  place  of  summer  loneliness? 

For  neither  the  sunlight  of  July, 

Nor  the  blue  of  the  lake, 

Nor  the  green  boundaries  of  cool  woodlands, 

Nor  the  song  of  larks  and  thrushes, 

Nor  the  bravuras  of  bobolinks, 

Nor  scents  of  hay  new  mown, 

Nor  the  ox-blood  sumach  cones, 

Nor  the  snow  of  nodding  yarrow, 

Nor  clover  blossoms  on  the  dizzy  crest 

Of  the  bluff  by  the  lake 

Can  take  away  the  loneliness 

Of  this  July  by  the  lake! 

***** 

[205] 


TOWARD  THE  GULF 

Last  night  you  saw  the  old  soldier 

By  your  window,  Widow  La  Rue! 

Or  was  it  your  husband  you  saw, 

As  he  lay  by  the  gate  so  long  ago? 

With  the  iris  of  his  eyes  so  black, 

And  the  white  of  his  eyes  so  china-blue, 

And  specks  of  blood  on  his  face, 

Like  a  wall  specked  by  a  shake  of  a  brush; 

And  something  like  blubber  or  pinkish  wax, 

Hiding  the  gash  in  his  throat,— 

The  serum  and  blood  blown  up  by  the  breath 

From  emptied  lungs. 

II 

So  Widow  La  Rue  has  gone  to  a  friend 
For  the  afternoon  and  the  night, 
Where  the  phantom  will  not  come, 
Where  the  phantom  may  be  forgotten. 
And  scarcely  has  she  turned  the  road, 
Round  the  water-mill  by  the  creek, 
When  the  telephone  rings  and  daughter  Flora 
Springs  up  from  a  drowsy  chair 
And  the  ennui  of  a  book, 
And  runs  to  answer  the  call. 
And  her  heart  gives  a  bound, 
And  her  heart  stops  still, 
As  she  hears  the  voice,  and  a  faintness  courses 
[206] 


WIDOW  LA  RUE 

Quick  as  poison  through  all  her  frame. 

And  something  like  bees  swarming  in  her  breast 

Comes  to  her  throat  in  a  surge  of  fear, 

Rapture,  passion,  for  what  is  the  voice 

But  the  voice  of  her  lover? 

And  just  because  she  is  here  alone 

In  this  desolate  summer-house  by  the  lake; 

And  just  because  this  man  is  forbidden 

To  cross  her  way,  for  a  taint  in  his  blood 

Of  drink,  from  a  father  who  died  of  drink; 

And  just  because  he  is  in  her  thought 

By  night  and  day, 

The  voice  of  him  heats  her  through  like  fire. 

She  sways  from  dizziness, 

The  telephone  falls  from  her  shaking  hand.  .  .  . 

He  is  in  the  village,  is  walking  out, 

He  will  be  at  the  door  in  an  hour. 


Ill 

The  sun  is  half  a  hand  above  the  lake 
In  a  sky  of  lemon-dust  down  to  the  purple  vastness. 
On  the  dizzy  crest  of  the  blufFthe  balls  of  clover 
Bow  in  the  warm  wind  blowing  across  a  meadow 
Where  hay-cocks  stand  new-piled  by  the  harvesters 
Clear  to  the  forest  of  pine  and  beech  at  the  meadow's 

end. 
A  robin  on  the  tip  of  a  poplar's  spire 

[207] 


TOWARD  THE  GULF 

Sings  to  the  sinking  sun  and  the  evening  planet. 
Over  the  olive  green  of  the  darkening  forest 
A  thin  moon  slits  the  sky  and  down  the  road 
Two  lovers  walk. 

It  is  night  when  they  reappear 
From  the  forest,  walking  the  hay-field  over. 
And  the  sky  is  so  full  of  stars  it  seems 
Like  a  field  of  buckwheat.    And  the  lovers  look  up, 
Then  stand  entranced  under  the  silence  of  stars, 
And  in  the  silence  of  the  scented  hay-field 
Blurred  only  by  a  lisp  of  the  listless  water 
A  hundred  feet  below. 
And  at  last  they  sit  by  a  cock  of  hay, 
As  warm  as  the  nest  of  a  bird, 
Hand  clasped  in  hand  and  silent, 
Large-eyed  and  silent. 


O,  daughter  Flora! 
Delicious  weakness  is  on  you  now, 
With  your  lover's  face  above  you. 
You  can  scarcely  lift  your  hand, 
Or  turn  your  head 
Pillowed  upon  the  fragrant  hay. 
You  dare  not  open  your  moistened  eyes 
For  fear  of  this  sky  of  stars, 
For  fear  of  your  lover's  eyes. 

[208] 


WIDOW  LA  RUE 

The  trance  of  nature  has  taken  you 

Rocked  on  creation's  tide. 

And  the  kinship  you  feel  for  this  man, 

Confessed  this  night — so  often  confessed 

And  wondered  at — 

Has  coiled  its  final  sorcery  about  you. 

You  do  not  know  what  it  is, 

Nor  care  what  it  is, 

Nor  care  what  fate  is  to  come, — 

The  night  has  you. 

You  only  move  white,  fainting  hands 

Against  his  strength,  then  let  them  fall. 

Your  lips  are  parted  over  set  teeth; 

A  dewy  moisture  with  the  aroma  of  a  woman's  body 

Maddens  your  lover, 

And  in  a  swift  and  terrible  moment 

The  mystery  of  love  is  unveiled  to  you.  .  .  . 

Then  your  lover  sits  up  with  a  sigh. 

But  you  lie  there  so  still  with  closed  eyes. 

So  content,  scarcely   breathing  under   that  ocean  of 

stars. 

A  night  bird  calls,  and  a  vagrant  zephyr 
Stirs  your  uncoiled  hair  on  your  bare  bosom, 
But  you  do  not  move. 
And  the  sun  comes  up  at  last 
Finding  you  asleep  in  his  arms, 
There  by  the  hay  cock. 

[209] 


TOWARD  THE  GULF 

And  he  kisses  your  tears  away, 

And  redeems  his  word  of  last  night, 

For  down  to  the  village  you  go 

And  take  your  vows  before  the  Pastor  there, 

And  then  return  to  the  summer  house.  .  .  . 

All  is  well. 

IV 

Widow  La  Rue  has  returned 

And  is  rocking  on  the  porch — 

What  is  about  to  happen  ? 

For  last  night  the  phantom  of  the  old  soldier 

Appeared  to  her  again — 

It  followed  her  to  the  house  of  her  friend, 

And  appeared  again. 

But  more  than  ever  was  it  her  husband, 

With  the  iris  of  his  eyes  so  black, 

And  the  white  of  his  eyes  so  china-blue. 

And  while  she  thinks  of  it, 

And  wonders  what  is  about  to  happen, 

She  hears  laughter, 

And  looking  up,  beholds  her  daughter 

And  the  forbidden  lover. 


And  then  the  daughter  and  her  husband 
Come  to  the  porch  and  the  daughter  says: 

[210] 


WIDOW  LA  RUE 

"  We  have  just  been  married  in  the  village,  mother; 

Will  you  forgive  us  ? 

This  is  your  son;  you  must  kiss  your  son." 

And  Widow  La  Rue  from  her  chair  arises 

And  calmly  takes  her  child  in  her  arms, 

And  clasps  his  hand. 

And  after  gazing  upon  him 

Imperturbably  as  Clytemnestra  looked 

Upon  returning  Agamemnon, 

With  a  light  in  her  eyes  which  neither  fathomed, 

She  kissed  him, 

And  in  a  calm  voice  blessed  them. 

Then  sent  her  daughter,  singing, 

On  an  errand  back  to  the  village 

To  market  for  dinner,  saying: 

"We'll  talk  over  plans,  my  dear." 


And  the  young  husband 

Rocks  on  the  porch  without  a  thought 

Of  the  lightning  about  to  strike. 

And  like  Clytemnestra,  Widow  La  Rue 

Enters  the  house. 

And  while  he  is  rocking,  with  all  his  spirit  in  a  rythmic 

rapture, 

The  Widow  La  Rue  takes  a  seat  in  the  room 
By  a  window  back  of  the  chair  where  he  rocks, 

12II] 


TOWARD  THE  GULF 

And  drawing  the  shade 
She  speaks: 

"These  two  nights  past  I  have  seen  the  phantom  of  the 

old  soldier 

Who  haunts  the  midnights 
Of  this  summer  loneliness. 
And  I  knew  that  a  doom  was  at  hand.  .  .  . 
You    have    married    my   daughter,    and   this    is    the 

doom.  .  .  . 
O,  God  in  heaven!'' 

Then  a  horror  as  of  a  writhing  whiteness 
Winds  out  of  the  July  glare 
And  stops  the  flow  of  his  blood, 
As  he  hears  from  the  re-echoing  room 
The  voice  of  Widow  La  Rue 
Moving  darkly  between  banks 
Of  delirious  fear  and  woe! 

"Be  calm  till  you  hear  me  through.  .  .  . 

Do  not  move,  or  enter  here, 

I  am  hiding  my  face  from  you.  .  .  . 

Hear  me  through,  and  then  fly. 

I  warned  her  against  you,  but  how  could  I  tell  her 

Why  you  were  not  for  her? 

But  tell  me  now,  have  you  come  together? 

No?    Thank  God  for  that.  .  .  . 

For  you  must  not  come  together.  .  .  . 

[212] 


WIDOW  LA  RUE 

Now  listen  while  I  whisper  to  you: 

My  daughter  was  born  of  a  lawless  love 

For  a  man  I  loved  before  I  married, 

And  when,  for  five  years,  no  child  came 

I  went  to  this  man 

And  begged  him  to  give  me  a  child.  .  .  . 

Well  then  .  .  .  the  child   was   born,   your  wife  as   it 

seems.  .  .  . 

And  when  my  husband  saw  her, 
And  saw  the  likeness  of  this  man  in  her  face 
He  went  out  of  the  house,  where  they  found  him  later 
By  the  entrance  gate 
With  the  iris  of  his  eyes  so  black, 
And  the  white  of  his  eyes  so  china-blue, 
And  specks  of  blood  on  his  face, 
Like  a  wall  specked  by  a  shake  of  a  brush. 
And  something  like  blubber  or  pinkish  wax 
Hiding  the  gash  in  his  throat — 
The  serum  and  blood  blown  up  by  the  breath 
From  emptied  lungs.    Yes,  there  by  the  gate,  O  God ! 
Quit  rocking  your  chair!    Don't  you  understand? 
Quit  rocking  your  chair!    Go!    Go! 
Leap  from  the  bluff  to  the  rocks  on  the  shore! 
Take  down  the  sickle  and  end  yourself! 
You  don't  care,  you  say,  for  all  I've  told  you? 
Well,  then,  you  see,  you're  older  than  Flora.  .  .  . 
And  her  father  died  when  she  was  a  baby.  .  .  . 
And  you  were  four  when  your  father  died.  .  .  . 

[213] 


TOWARD  THE  GULF 

And  her  father  died  on  the  very  day 
That  your  father  died, 
At  the  very  same  moment.  .  .  . 
On  the  very  same  bed.  .  .  . 
Don't  you  understand  ?  " 

VI 

He  ceases  to  rock.    He  reels  from  the  porch, 
He  runs  and  stumbles  to  reach  the  road. 
He  yells  and  curses  and  tears  his  hair. 
He  staggers  and  falls  and  rises  and  runs. 
And  Widow  La  Rue 
With  the  eyes  of  Clytemnestra 
Stands  at  the  window  and  watches  him 
Running  and  tearing  his  hair. 

VII 

She  seems  so  calm  when  the  daughter  returns. 
She  only  says:  "He  has  gone  to  the  meadow, 
He  will  soon  be  back.  .  .  ." 
But  he  never  came  back. 

And  the  years  went  on  till  the  daughter's  hair 

Was  white  as  her  mother's  there  in  the  grave. 

She  was  known  as  the  bride  whom  the  bridegroom  left 

And  didn't  say  good-bye. 


214] 


DR.  SCUDDER'S  CLINICAL  LECTURE 

I  lectured  last  upon  the  morbus  sacer, 
Or  falling  sickness,  epilepsy,  of  old 
In  Palestine  and  Greece  so  much  ascribed 
To  deities  or  devils.    To  resume 
We  find  it  caused  by  morphological 
Changes  of  the  cortex  cells.    Sometimes, 
More  times,  indeed,  the  anatomical 
Basis,  if  one  be,  escapes  detection. 
For  many  functions  of  the  cortex  are 
Unknown,  as  I  have  said. 

And  now  remember 
Mercier's  analysis  of  heredity: 
Besides  direct  transmission  of  unstable 
Nervous  systems,  there  remains  the  law 
Hereditary  of  sanguinity. 
Then  here's  another  matter:  Parents  may 
Have  normal  nervous  systems,  yet  produce 
Children  of  abnormal  nerves  and  minds, 
Caused  by  unsuitable  sexual  germs. 
Let  me  repeat  before  I  leave  the  matter 
The  factors  in  a  perfect  organization: 
First  quality  in  the  germ  producing  matter; 
Then  quality  in  the  sperm  producing  force, 


TOWARD  THE  GULF 

And  lastly  relative  fitness  of  the  two. 

We  are  but  plants,  however  high  we  rise, 

Whatever  thoughts  we  have,  or  dreams  we  dream 

We  are  but  plants,  and  all  we  are  and  do 

Depends  upon  the  seed  and  on  the  soil. 

What  Mendel  found  in  raising  peas  may  lead 

To  perfect  knowledge  of  the  human  mind. 

There  is  one  law  for  men  and  peas,  the  law 

Makes  peas  of  certain  matter,  and  makes  men 

And  mind  of  certain  matter,  all  depends 

Not  on  a  varying  law,  but  on  a  law 

Varied  in  its  course  by  matter,  as 

The  arm,  which  is  a  lever  and  which  works 

By  lever  principle  cannot  make  use 

And  form  cement  with  trowel  to  the  forms 

It  makes  of  paint  or  marble. 

To  resume: 

A  child  may  take  the  qualities  of  one  parent 
In  some  respects,  and  of  the  other  parent 
In  some  respects.    A  child  may  have  the  traits 
Of  father  at  one  period  of  his  life, 
The  mother  at  one  period  of  his  life. 
And  if  the  parents'  traits  are  similar 
Their  traits  may  be  prepotent  in  a  child, 
Thus  giving  rise  to  qualities  convergent. 
So  if  you  take  a  circle  and  draw  off 
A  line  which  would  become  another  circle 
[216] 


DR.  SCUDDER'S  CLINICAL  LECTURE 

If  drawn  enough,  completed,  but  is  left 

Half  drawn  or  less,  that  illustrates  a  mind 

Of  cumulative  heredity.    Take  John, 

My  gardener,  John,  within  his  sphere  is  perfect, 

John  has  a  mind  which  is  a  perfect  circle. 

A  perfect  circle  can  be  small,  you  know. 

And  so  John  has  good  sense  within  his  sphere. 

But  if  some  force  began  to  work  like  yeast 

In  brain  cells,  and  his  mind  shot  forth  a  line 

To  make  a  larger  thinking  circle,  say 

About  a  great  invention,  heaven  or  God, 

Then  John  would  be  abnormal,  till  this  line 

Shot  round  and  joined,  became  a  larger  circle. 

This  is  the  secret  of  eccentric  genius, 

The  man  is  half  a  sphere,  sticks  out  in  space 

Does  not  enclose  co-ordinated  thought. 

He's  like  a  plant  mutating,  half  himself 

Half  something  new  and  greater.    If  we  looked 

To  John's  heredity  we'd  find  this  change 

Was  manifest  in  mother  or  in  father 

About  the  self-same  period  of  life, 

Most  likely  in  his  father.    Attributes 

Of  fathers  are  inherited  by  sons, 

Of  mothers  by  the  daughters. 

Now  this  morning 
I  take  up  paranoia.    Paranoics 
Are  often  noted  for  great  gifts  of  mind. 


TOWARD  THE  GULF 

Mahomet,  Swedenborg  were  paranoias, 

Joan  of  Arc,  and  Ossawatomie  Brown, 

Cellini,  many  others.    All  who  think 

Themselves  inspired  of  God,  and  all  who  see 

Themselves  appointed  to  a  work,  the  subjects 

Of  prophecies  are  paranoics.    All 

Who  visions  have  of  God  or  archangels, 

Hear  voices  or  celestial  music,  these 

Are  paranoics.    And  whether  it  be  they  rise 

Enough  above  the  earth  to  look  along 

A  longer  arc  and  see  realities, 

Or  see  strange  things  through  atmospheric  strata 

Which  build  up  or  distort  the  things  they  see 

Remains  the  question.    Let  us  wait  the  proof. 

Last  week  I  told  you  I  would  have  to-day 

The  skull  and  brain  of  Jacob  Groesbell  here, 

And  lecture  on  his  case.    Here  is  the  brain: 

Weight  sixteen  hundred  grammes.    Students  may  look 

After  the  lecture  at  the  brain  and  skull. 

There's  nothing  anatomical  at  fault 

With  this  fine  brain,  so  far  as  I  can  find. 

You'll  note  how  deep  the  convolutions  are, 

Arrangement  quite  symmetrical.    The  skull 

Is  well  formed  too.     The  jaws  are  long  you'll  note, 

The  palate  roof  somewhat  asymmetrical. 

But  this  is  scarce  significant.    Let  me  tell 

How  Jacob  Groesbell  looked: 


DR.  SCUDDER'S  CLINICAL  LECTURE 

The  man  was  tall, 

Had  shapely  hands  and  feet,  but  awkward  limbs. 
His  hair  was  brown  and  fine,  his  forehead  high, 
And  ran  back  at  an  angle,  temples  full. 
His  nose  was  long  and  fleshy  at  the  point, 
Was  tilted  to  one  side.    His  eyes  were  gray, 
The  iris  flecked.    They  looked  as  if  a  light 
As  of  a  sun-set  shone  behind  them.    Ears 
Were  very  large,  projected  at  right  angles. 
His  neck  was  slender,  womanish.    His  skin 
Of  finest  texture,  white  and  very  smooth. 
His  voice  was  quiet,  musical.    His  manner 
Patient  and  gentle,  modest,  reasonable. 
His  parents,  as  I  learned  through  inquiry, 
Were  Methodists,  devout  and  greatly  loved. 
The  mother  healthy  both  in  mind  and  body. 
The  father  was  eccentric,  perhaps  insane. 
They  were  first  cousins. 

I  knew  Jacob  Groesbell 
Ten  years  before  he  died.    I  knew  him  first 
When  he  was  sent  to  mend  my  porch.    A  workman 
With  saw  and  hammer  never  excelled  him.    Then 
As  time  went  on  I  saw  him  when  he  came 
At  my  request  to  do  my  carpentry. 
I  grew  to  know  him,  and  by  slow  degrees 
He  told  me  of  his  readings  in  the  Bible, 
And  gave  me  his  interpretations.    At  last 

[219] 


TOWARD  THE  GULF 

Aged  forty-six,  had  ulcers  of  the  stomach, 

Which  took  him  off.    He  sent  for  me,  and  said 

He  wished  me  to  attend  him,  which  I  did. 

He  told  me  I  could  have  his  body  and  brain 

To  lecture  on,  dissect,  since  some  had  said 

He  was  insane,  he  told  me,  and  if  so 

I  should  find  something  wrong  with  brain  or  body. 

And  if  I  found  a  wrong  then  all  his  visions 

Of  God  and  archangels  were  just  the  fancies 

That  come  to  madmen.    So  he  made  provision 

To  give  his  brain  and  body  for  this  cause, 

And  here's  his  brain  and  skull,  and  I  am  lecturing 

On  Jacob  Groesbell  as  a  paranoic. 

As  I  have  said  before,  in  making  tests 

And  observations  of  the  patient,  have 

His  conversation  taken  stenographically, 

In  order  to  preserve  his  speech  exactly, 

And  catch  the  flow  if  he  becomes  excited. 

So  we  determine  if  he  makes  new  words, 

If  he  be  incoherent,  or  repeats. 

I  took  my  secretary  once  to  make 

A  stenographic  record.    Strange  enough 

He  would  not  talk  while  she  was  writing  down. 

And  when  I  asked  him  why,  he  would  not  tell. 

So  I  devised  a  scheme:  I  took  a  satchel, 

And  put  in  it  a  dictaphone,  and  when 

A  cylinder  was  full  I'd  stoop  and  put 

[220] 


DR.  SCUDDER'S  CLINICAL  LECTURE 

My  hand  among  my  bottles  in  the  satchel, 

As  if  I  was  compounding  medicine, 

Instead  I'd  put  another  cylinder  on. 

And  thus  I  got  his  story  in  his  voice, 

Just  as  he  talked,  with  nothing  lost  at  all, 

Which  you  shall  hear.    For  with  this  megaphone 

The  students  in  the  farthest  gallery 

Can  hear  what  Jacob  Groesbell  said  to  me, 

And  weigh  the  thought  that  stirred  within  the  brain 

Here  in  this  jar  beside  me.    Listen  now 

To  Jacob  Groesbell's  voice: 

"Will  you  repeat 

From  the  beginning  connectedly  the  story 
Of  your  religious  life,  illumination, 
What  you  have  called  your  soul's  escape?" 

"I  will, 
Since  I  shall  never  tell  it  again." 

"I  grew  up 

Timid  and  sensitive,  not  very  strong, 
Not  understood  of  father  or  of  mother. 
They  did  not  love  me,  and  I  never  felt 
A  tenderness  for  them.    I  used  to  quote: 
' Who  is  my  mother  and  who  are  my  brothers?' 
At  school  I  was  not  liked.    I  had  a  chum 
From  time  to  time,  that's  all.    And  I  remember 
[221] 


TOWARD  THE  GULF 

My  mother  on  a  day  put  with  my  luncheon 

A  bottle  of  milk,  and  when  the  noon  hour  came 

I  missed  it,  found  some  boys  had  taken  it, 

And  when  I  asked  for  it,  they  made  the  cry: 

*  Bottle  of  milk,  bottle  of  milk/  and  I 

Flushed  through  with  shame,  and  cried,  and  to  this 

hour 

It  hurts  me  to  remember  it.    Such  days, 
All  misery!    For  all  my  clothes  were  patched. 
They  hooted  at  me.    So  I  lived  alone. 
At  twelve  years  old  I  had  great  fears  of  death, 
And  hell,  heard  devils  in  my  room.    One  night 
During  a  thunderstorm  heard  clanking  chains, 
And  hid  beneath  the  pillows.    One  spring  day 
As  I  was  walking  on  the  village  street 
Close  to  the  church  I  heard  a  voice  which  said 
1  Behold,  my  son' — and  falling  on  my  knees 
I  prayed  in  ecstacy — but  as  I  prayed 
Some  passing  school  boys  laughed,  threw  stones  at  me. 
A  heat  ran  through  me,  I  arose  and  fled. 
Well,  then  I  joined  the  church  and  was  baptized. 
But  something  left  me  in  the  ceremony, 
I  lost  my  ecstacy,  seemed  slipping  back 
Into  the  trap.    I  took  to  wandering 
In  solitary  places,  could  not  bear 
To  see  a  human  face.    I  slept  for  nights 
In  still  ravines,  or  meadows.    But  one  time 
Returning  to  my  home,  I  found  the  room 

[222] 


DR.  SCUDDER'S  CLINICAL  LECTURE 

Filled  up  with  visitors — my  heart  stopped  short, 
And  glancing  at  the  faces  of  my  parents 
I  hurried,  bolted  through,  and  did  not  speak, 
Entered  a  bed-room  door  and  closed  it.    So 
I  tell  this  just  to  illustrate  my  shyness, 
Which  cursed  my  youth  and  made  me  miserable, 
Something  I  fought  but  could  not  overcome. 
And  pondering  on  the  Scriptures  I  could  see 
How  I  resembled  the  saints,  our  Saviour  even, 
How  even  as  my  brothers  called  me  mad 
They  called  our  Saviour  so. 

"  At  fourteen  years 

My  father  taught  me  carpentry,  his  trade, 
And  made  me  work  with  him.    I  seemed  to  be 
The  butt  for  jokes  and  laughter  with  the  men — 
I  know  not  why.    For  now  and  then  they'd  drop 
A  word  that  showed  they  knew  my  secrets,  knew 
I  had  heard  voices,  knew  I  loathed  the  lusts 
Of  women,  drink.    Oh  these  were  sorry  years, 
God  was  not  with  me  though  I  sought  Him  ever 
And  I  was  persecuted  for  His  sake.    My  brain 
Seemed  like  to  burst  at  times,  saw  sparkling  lights, 
Heard  music,  voices,  made  strange  shapes  of  leaves, 
Clouds,  trunks  of  trees, — illusions  of  the  devil. 
I  was  turned  twenty  years  when  on  an  evening 
Calm,  beautiful  in  June,  after  a  day 
Of  healthful  toil,  while  sitting  on  the  porch, 

[223] 


TOWARD  THE  GULF 

The  sun  just  sinking,  at  my  left  I  heard 

A  voice  of  hollow  clearness:  "You  are  Christ." 

My  eyes  grew  blind  with  tears  for  the  evil 

Of  such  a  thought,  soul  stained  with  such  a  thought, 

So  devil  stained,  soul  damned  with  blasphemy. 

I  ran  into  my  room  and  seized  a  pistol 

To  end  my  life.    God  willed  it  otherwise. 

I  fainted  and  awoke  upon  the  floor 

After  some  hours.    To  heap  my  suffering  full 

A  few  days  after  this  while  in  the  village 

I  went  into  a  store.    The  friendly  clerk — 

I  knew  him  always — said  'What  will  you  have? 

I  wait  first  always  on  the  little  boys/ 

I  laughed  and  went  my  way.    But  in  an  hour 

His  saying  rankled,  I  began  to  brood 

On  ways  of  vengeance,  till  it  seemed  at  last 

His  life  must  pay.    O,  soul  so  full  of  sin, 

So  devil  tangled,  tortured — which  not  prayer 

Nor  watching  could  deliver.    So  I  thought 

To  save  my  soul  from  murder  I  must  fly — 

I  felt  an  urging  as  one  does  in  sleep 

Pursued  by  giant  things  to  fly,  to  fly 

From  terror,  death,  from  blankness  on  the  scene, 

From  emptiness,  from  beauty  gone.    The  world 

Seemed  something  seen  in  fever,  where  the  steps 

Of  men  are  muffled,  and  a  futile  scheme 

Impels  all  steps.    So  packing  up  my  kit, 

My  Bible  in  my  pocket,  secretly 

[224] 


DR.  SCUDDER'S  CLINICAL  LECTURE 

I  disappeared.    Next  day  took  up  my  life 
In  Barrington,  a  village  thirty  miles 
From  all  I  knew,  besides  a  lovely  lake, 
Reached  by  a  road  that  crossed  a  bridge 
Over  a  little  bay,  the  bridge's  ends 
Clustered  with  boats  for  fishermen.    And  here 
Night  after  night  I  fished,  or  stood  and  watched 
The  star-light  on  the  water. 

I  grew  calmer 

Almost  found  peace,  got  work  to  do,  and  lived 
Under  a  widow's  roof,  who  was  devout 
And  knew  my  love  for  God.    Now  listen,  doctor, 
To  every  word :  I  was  now  twenty-five, 
In  perfect  health,  no  longer  persecuted, 
At  peace  with  all  the  world,  if  not  my  soul 
Had  wholly  found  its  peace,  for  truth  to  tell 
It  had  an  ache  which  sometimes  I  could  feel, 
And  yet  I  had  this  soul  awakening. 
I  know  I  have  been  counted  mad,  so  watch 
Each  detail  here  and  judge. 

At  four  o'clock 

The  thirtieth  day  of  June,  my  work  being  done, 
My  kit  upon  my  back  I  walked  this  road 
Toward  the  village.    'Twas  an  afternoon 
Of  clouds,  no  rain,  a  little  breeze,  the  tinkle 
Of  cow  bells  in  the  air,  a  heavenly  silence 

[225] 


TOWARD  THE  GULF 

Pervading  nature.    Reaching  the  hill's  foot 

I  sat  down  by  a  tree  to  rest,  enjoy 

The  greenness  of  the  forests,  meadows,  flats 

Along  the  bay,  the  blueness  of  the  lake, 

The  ripple  of  the  water  at  my  feet, 

The  rythmic  babble  of  the  little  boats 

Tied  to  the  bridge.    And  as  I  sat  there  musing, 

Myself  lost  in  the  self,  in  time  the  clouds 

Lifted,  blew  off,  to  let  the  sun  go  down 

Over  the  waters  gloriously  to  rest. 

So  as  I  stared  upon  the  sun  on  the  water, 

Some  minutes,  though  I  know  not  for  how  long, 

Out  of  the  splendor  of  the  shining  sun 

Upon  the  water,  Jesus  of  Nazareth 

Clothed  all  in  white,  the  nimbus  round  his  brow, 

His  face  all  wisdom,  love,  rose  to  my  view, 

And  then  he  spake:  *  Jacob,  my  son,  arise 

And  come  with  me/ 

"  And  in  an  instant  there 
Something  fell  from  me,  I  became  a  cloud, 
A  soul  with  wings.    A  glory  burned  about  me. 
And  in  that  glory  I  perceived  all  things: 
I  saw  the  eternal  wheels,  the  deepest  secrets 
Of  creatures,  herbs  and  grass,  and  stars  and  suns 
And  I  knew  God,  and  knew  all  things  as  God : 
The  All  loving,  the  Perfect  One,  the  Perfect  Wisdom, 
Truth,  love  and  purity.    And  in  that  instant 
[226] 


DR.  SCUDDER'S  CLINICAL  LECTURE 

Atoms  and  molecules  I  saw,  and  faces, 
And  how  they  are  arranged  order  to  order, 
With  no  break  in  the  order,  one  harmonious 
Whole  of  universal  life  all  blended 
And  interfused  with  universal  love. 
And  as  it  was  with  Shelley  so  I  cried, 
And  clasped  my  hands  in  ecstacy  and  rose 
And  started  back  to  climb  the  hill  again, 
Scarce  knowing,  neither  caring  what  I  did, 
Nor  where  I  went,  and  thinking  if  this  be 
A  fancy  only  of  the  Saviour  then 
He  will  not  follow  me,  and  if  it  be 
Himself,  indeed,  he  will  not  let  me  fall 
After  the  revelation.    As  I  reached 
The  brow  of  the  hill,  I  felt  his  presence  with  me 
And  turned,  and  saw  Him.     'Thou  hast  faith,  my  son, 
Who  knowest  me,  when  they  who  walked  with  me 
Toward  Emmaus  knew  me  not,  to  whom  I  told 
All  secrets  of  the  scriptures  beginning  at  Moses, 
Who  knew  me  not  till  I  brake  bread  and  then, 
As  after  thought  could  say,  Did  not  our  heart 
Within  us  burn  while  he  talked.    O,  Jacob  Groesbell, 
Thou  carpenter,  as  I  was,  greatly  blessed 
With  visions  and  my  Father's  love,  this  walk 
Is  your  walk  toward  Emmaus.'    So  he  talked, 
Expounding  all  the  scriptures,  telling  me 
About  the  race  of  men  who  live  and  move 
Along  a  life  of  meat  and  drink  and  sleep 
[227] 


TOWARD  THE  GULF 

And  comforts  of  the  flesh,  while  here  and  there 
A  hungering  soul  is  chosen  to  lift  up 
And  re-create  the  race.    'The  prophet,  poet 
Must  seek  and  must  find  God  to  keep  the  race 
Awake  to  the  divine  and  to  the  orders 
Of  universal  and  harmonious  life, 
All  interfused  with  Universal  love, 
Which  love  is  God,  lest  blindness,  atheism, 
Which  sees  no  order,  reason,  no  intent 
Beat  down  the  race  to  welter  in  the  mire 
When  storms,  and  floods  come.    And  the  sons  of  God, 
The  leaders  of  the  race  from  age  to  age 
Are  chosen  for  their  separate  work,  each  work 
Fits  in  the  given  order.    All  who  suffer 
The  martyrdom  of  thought,  whether  they  think 
Themselves  as  servants  of  my  Father,  or  even 
Mock  at  the  images  and  rituals 
Which  prophets  of  dead  creeds  did  symbolize 
The  mystery  they  sensed,  or  whether  they  be 
Spirits  of  laughter,  logic,  divination 
Of  human  life,  the  human  soul,  all  men 
Who  give  their  essence,  blindly  or  in  vision 
In  faith  that  life  is  worth  their  utmost  love, 
They  are  my  brothers  and  my  Father's  sons/ 
So  Jesus  told  me  as  we  took  my  walk 
Toward  my  Emmaus.    After  a  time  we  turned 
And  walked  through  heading  rye  and  purple  vetch 
Into  an  orchard  where  great  rows  of  pears 
[228] 


DR.  SCUDDER'S  CLINICAL  LECTURE 

Sloped  up  a  hill.    It  was  now  evening: 
Stretches  of  scarlet  clouds  were  in  the  west, 
And  a  half  moon  was  hanging  just  above 
The  pears'  white  blossoms.    0,  that  evening! 
We  came  back  to  the  boats  at  last  and  loosed 
One  of  them  and  rowed  out  into  the  bay, 
And  fished,  while  the  stars  appeared.     He  only  said 
*  Whatever  they  did  with  me  you  too  shall  do.' 
A  haziness  came  on  me  now.    I  seem 
To  find  myself  alone  there  in  that  boat. 
At  mid-night  I  awoke,  the  moon  was  sunk, 
The  whippoorwills  were  singing.    I  walked  home 
Back  to  the  village  in  a  silence,  peace, 
A  happiness  profound. 

"And  the  next  morning 
I  awoke  with  aching  head,  spent  body,  yet 
With  spiritual  vision  so  intense  I  looked 
Through  things  material  as  if  they  were 
But  shadows — old  things  passed  away  or  grew 
A  lovelier  order.    And  my  heart  was  full. 
Infinitely  I  loved,  and  infinitely  was  loved. 
My  landlady  looked  at  me  sharply,  asked 
What  hour  I  entered,  where  I  was  so  late. 
I  only  answered  fishing.    For  I  told 
No  person  of  my  vision,  went  my  way 
At  carpentry  in  silence,  in  great  joy. 
For  archangels  and  powers  were  at  my  side, 

[229] 


TOWARD  THE  GULF  - 

They  led  me,  bore  me  up,  instructed  me 
In  mysteries,  and  voices  said  to  me 
'Write'  as  the  voice  in  Patmos  said  to  John. 
I  wrote  and  printed  and  the  village  read, 
And  called  me  mad.    And  so  I  grew  to  see 
The  deepest  truths  of  God,  and  God  Himself, 
The  geniture  of  all  things,  of  the  Word 
Becoming  flesh  in  Christ.    I  knew  all  ages, 
Times,  empires,  races,  creeds,  the  human  weakness 
Which  makes  life  wearisome,  confused  and  pained, 
And  how  the  search  for  something  (it  is  God) 
Makes  divers  worships,  fire,  the  sun,  and  beasts 
Takes  form  in  Eleusinian  mysteries 
Or  festivals  where  sex,  the  vine,  the  Earth 
At  harvest  time  have  praise  or  reverence. 
I  knew  God,  talked  with  God,  and  knew  that  God 
Is  more  than  Thought  or  Love.    Our  twisted  brains 
Are  but  the  wires  in  the  bulb  which  stays, 
Resists  the  current  and  makes  human  thought. 
As  the  electric  current  is  not  light 
But  heat  and  power  as  well.    Our  little  brains 
Resist  God  and  make  thought  and  love  as  well. 
But  God  is  more  than  these.    Oh  I  heard  much 
Of  music,  heard  the  whirring  as  of  wheels, 
Or  buzzing  as  of  ears  when  a  room  is  still. 
That  is  the  axis  of  profoundest  life 
Which  turns  and  rests  not.    And  I  heard  the  cry 
And  hearing  wept,  of  man's  soul,  heard  the  ages, 
[230] 


DR.  SCUDDER'S  CLINICAL  LECTURE 

The  epochs  of  this  earth  as  it  were  the  feet 
Of  multitudes  in  corridors.    And  I  knew 
The  agony  of  genius  and  the  woe 
Of  prophets  and  the  great. 

"From  that  next  morning 
I  searched  the  scriptures  with  more  fervid  zeal 
Than  I  had  ever  done.    I  could  not  open 
Its  pages  anywhere  but  I  could  find 
Myself  set  forth  or  mirrored,  pointed  to. 
I  could  not  doubt  my  destiny  was  bound 
With  man's  salvation.    Jeremiah  said 
'Take  forth  the  precious  from  the  vile/    Those  words 
To  me  were  spoken,  and  to  no  one  else. 
And  so  I  searched  the  scriptures.    And  I  found 
I  never  had  a  thought,  experience,  pang, 
A  state  in  human  life  our  Saviour  had  not. 
He  was  a  carpenter,  and  so  was  I. 
He  had  his  soul's  illumination,  so  had  I. 
His  brethren  called  him  mad,  they  called  me  mad'. 
He  triumphed  over  death,  so  shall  I  triumph. 
For  I  could,  I  can  feel  my  way  along 
Death's  stages  as  a  man  can  reach  and  feel 
Ahead  of  him  along  a  wall.    I  know 
This  body  is  a  shell,  a  butterfly's 
Excreta  pushed  away  with  rising  wings. 

"I  searched  the  scriptures.    How  should  I  believe 
Paul's  story,  not  my  own  ?    Did  he  not  see 
[231] 


TOWARD  THE  GULF 

At  mid-day  in  the  way  a  light  from  heaven 
Above  the  brightness  of  the  sun  and  hear 
The  voice  of  Jesus  saying  to  him  'Saul/ 
Why  persecutest  thou  me?'    And  did  not  Festus, 
Before  whom  Paul  stood  speaking  for  himself, 
Call  Paul  a  mad  man?    Even  while  he  spake 
Such  words  as  none  but  men  inspired  can  speak, 
As  well  as  words  of  truth  and  soberness, 
Such  as  myself  speak  now. 

"And  from  the  scriptures 
I  passed  to  studies  of  the  men  who  came 
To  great  illuminations.    You  will  see 
There  are  two  kinds :  One's  of  the  intellect, 
The  understanding,  one  is  of  the  soul. 
The  x-ray  lets  the  eye  behind  the  flesh 
To  see  the  ribs,  or  heart  beat,  choose!    So  men 
In  their  illumination  see  the  frame-work 
Of  life  or  see  its  spirit,  so  align 
Themselves  with  Science,  Satire,  or  align 
Themselves  with  Poetry  or  Prophecy. 
So  being  Aristotle,  Rabelais, 
Paul,  Swedenborg. 

"And  as  the  years 

Went  on,  as  I  had  time,  was  fortunate 
In  finding  books  I  read  of  many  men 
Who  had  illumination,  as  I  had  it.    Read 

[232] 


DR.  SCUDDER'S  CLINICAL  LECTURE 

Of  Dante's  vision,  how  he  found  himself 

Saw  immortality,  lost  fear  of  death. 

Read  Swedenborg,  who  left  the  intellect 

At  fifty-four  for  God,  and  entered  heaven 

Before  he  quitted  life  and  saw  behind 

The  sun  of  fire,  a  sun  of  love  and  truth. 

Read  Whitman  who  exclaimed  to  God:  'Thou  knowest 

My  manhood's  visionary  meditations 

Which  come  from  Thee,  the  ardor  and  the  urge. 

Thou  lightest  my  life  with  rays  ineffable 

Beyond  all  signs,  descriptions,  languages/ 

Read  Blake,  Spinoza,  Emerson,  read  Wordsworth 

Who  wrote  of  something  '  deeply  interfused, 

Whose  dwelling  is  the  light  of  setting  suns, 

And  the  round  ocean  and  the  living  air, 

And  the  blue  skies,  and  in  the  mind  of  man — 

A  motion  and  a  spirit  that  impels 

All  thinking  things,  all  objects  of  all  thought 

And  rolls  through  all  things/ 

"And  at  last  they  called  me 
The  mad,  and  learned  carpenter.    And  then — 
I'm  growing  faint.    Your  hand,  hold  .  .  ." 

At  this  point 

He  fainted,  sank  into  a  stupor.    There 
I  watched  him,  to  discover  if  'twas  death. 
But  soon  I  saw  him  rally,  then  he  spoke. 

[233] 


TOWARD  THE  GULF 

There  was  some  other  talk,  but  not  of  moment. 
I  had  to  change  the  cylinder — the  talk 
Was  broken,  rambling,  and  of  trifling  things, 
Throws  no  light  on  the  case,  being  sane  enough. 
He  died  next  morning. 

Students  who  desire 

To  examine  the  skull  and  brain  may  do  so  now 
At  their  convenience  in  the  laboratory. 


[234 


FRIAR  YVES 

Said  Friar  Yves:  "God  will  bless 
Saint  Louis'  other-worldliness. 
Whatever  the  fate  be,  still  I  fare 
To  fight  for  the  Holy  Sepulcher. 
If  I  survive,  I  shall  return 
With  precious  things  from  Palestine — 
Gold  for  my  purse,  spices  and  wine, 
Glory  to  wear  among  my  kin. 
Fame  as  a  warrior  I  shall  win. 
But,  otherwise,  if  I  am  slain 
In  Jesus'  cause,  my  soul  shall  earn 
Immortal  life  washed  white  from  sin." 

Said  Friar  Yves:  "Come  what  will — 
Riches  and  glory,  death  and  woe — 
At  dawn  to  Palestine  I  go. 
Whether  I  live  or  die,  I  gain 
To  fly  the  tepid  good  and  ill 
Of  daily  living  in  Champagne, 
Where  those  who  reach  salvation  lose 
The  treasures,  raptures  of  the  earth, 
Captured,  possessed,  and  made  to  serve 
The  gospel  love  of  Jesus'  birth, 
Sacrifice,  death;  where  even  those 

[235] 


TOWARD  THE  GULF 

Passing  from  pious  works  and  prayer 

To  paradise  are  not  received 

As  those  who  battled,  strove,  and  lived, 

And  periled  bodies,  as  I  choose 

To  peril  mine,  and  thus  to  use 

Body  and  soul  to  build  the  throne 

Of  Louis  the  Saint,  where  Joseph's  care 

Lay  Jesus  under  a  granite  stone." 

Then  Friar  Yves  buckled  on 

His  breastplate,  and,  at  break  of  dawn, 

With  crossboy,  halberd  took  his  way, 

Walked  without  resting,  without  pause, 

Till  the  sun  hovered  at  midday 

Over  a  tree  of  glistening  leaves, 

Where  a  spring  gurgled.    "Hunger  gnaws 

My  stomach,"  whispered  Friar  Yves. 

"If  I,"  he  sighed,  "could  only  gain, 

Like  yonder  spring,  an  inner  source 

Of  life,  and  need  not  dew  or  rain 

Of  human  love,  or  human  friends, 

And  thus  accomplish  my  soul's  ends 

Within  myself!    No,"  said  the  friar; 

"There  is  one  water  and  one  fire; 

There  is  one  Spirit,  which  is  God. 

And  what  are  we  but  streams  and  springs 

Through  which  He  takes  His  wanderings? 

Lord,  I  am  weak,  I  am  afraid; 

[236] 


FRIAR  YVES 

Show  me  the  way!''  the  friar  prayed. 
" Where  do  I  flow  and  to  what  end? 
Am  I  of  Thee,  or  do  I  blend 
Hereafter  with  Thee?" 

Yves  heard, 

While  praying,  sounds  as  when  the  sod 
Teems  with  a  swarm  of  insect  things. 
He  dropped  his  halberd  to  look  down, 
And  then  his  waking  vision  blurred, 
As  one  before  a  light  will  frown. 
His  inner  ear  was  caught  and  stirred 
By  voices;  then  the  chestnut  tree 
Became  a  step  beside  a  throne. 
Breathless  he  lay  and  fearfully, 
While  on  his  brain  a  vision  shone. 

Said  a  Great  Voice  of  sweetest  tone: 
"The  time  has  come  when  I  must  take 
The  form  of  man  for  mankind's  sake. 
This  drama  is  played  long  enough 
By  creatures  who  have  naught  of  me, 
Save  what  comes  up  from  foam  of  the  sea 
To  crawling  moss  or  swimming  weeds, 
At  last  to  man.    From  heaven  in  flame, 
Pure,  whole,  and  vital,  down  I  fly, 
And  take  a  mortal's  form  and  name, 
And  labor  for  the  race's  needs." 


TOWARD  THE  GULF 

Then  Friar  Yves  dreamed  the  sky 

Flushed  like  a  bride's  face  rosily, 

And  shot  to  lightning  from  its  bloom. 

The  world  leaped  like  a  babe  in  the  womb, 

And  choral  voices  from  heaven's  cope 

Circled  the  earth  like  singing  stars: 

"0  wondrous  hope,  O  sweetest  hope, 

0  passion  realized  at  last; 

O  end  of  hunger,  fear,  and  wars, 

0  victory  over  the  bottomless,  vast 

Valley  of  Death!" 

A  silence  fell, 

Broke  by  the  voice  of  Gabriel: 
"  Music  may  follow  this,  0  Lord ! 
Music  I  hear;  I  hear  discord 
Through  ages  yet  to  be,  as  well. 
There  will  be  wars  because  of  this, 
And  wars  will  come  in  its  despite. 
It's  noon  on  the  world  now;  blackest  night 
Will  follow  soon.    And  men  will  miss 
The  meaning,  Lord!    There  will  be  strife 
'Twixt  Montanist  and  Ebionite, 
Gnostic,  Mithraist,  Manichean, 
Twixt  Christian  and  the  Saracen. 
There  will  be  war  to  win  the  place 
Where  you  bend  death  to  sovereign  life. 
Armed  kings  will  battle  for  the  grace 
[238] 


FRIAR  YVES 

Of  rulership,  for  power  and  gold 
In  the  name  of  Jesus.    Men  will  hold 
Conclaves  of  swords  to  win  surcease 
Of  doctrines  of  the  Prince  of  Peace. 
The  seed  is  good,  Lord,  make  the  ground 
Good  for  the  seed  you  scatter  round!" 

Said  the  Great  Voice  of  sweetest  tone: 
"The  gardener  sprays  his  plants  and  trees 
To  drive  out  lice  and  stop  disease. 
After  the  spraying,  fruit  is  grown 
Ruddy  and  plump.    The  shortened  eyes 
Of  men  can  see  this  end,  although 
Leaves  wither  or  a  whole  tree  dies 
From  what  the  gardener  does  to  grow 
Apples  and  plums  of  sweeter  flesh. 
The  gardener  lives  outside  the  tree; 
The  gardener  knows  the  tree  can  see 
What  cure  is  needed,  plans  afresh 
An  end  foreseen,  and  there's  the  will 
Wherewith  the  gardener  may  fulfil 
The  orchard's  destiny." 

So  He  spake. 

And  Friar  Yves  seemed  to  wake, 
But  did  not  wake,  and  only  sunk 
Into  another  dreaming  state, 
Wherein  he  saw  a  woman's  form 

[239] 


TOWARD  THE  GULF 

Leaning  against  the  chestnut's  trunk. 
Her  body  was  virginal,  white,  and  straight, 
And  glowed  like  a  dawning,  golden,  warm, 
Behind  a  robe  of  writhing  green : 
As  when  a  rock's  wall  makes  a  screen 
Whereon  the  crisscross  reflect  moves 
Of  circling  water  under  the  rays 
Of  April  sunlight  through  the  sprays 
Of  budding  branches  in  willow  groves — 
A  liquid  mosaic  of  green  and  gold — 
Thus  was  her  robe. 

But  to  behold 

Her  face  was  to  forget  the  youth 
Of  her  white  bosom.    All  her  hair 
Was  tangled  serpents;  she  did  wear 
A  single  eye  in  the  middle  brow. 
Her  cheeks  were  shriveled,  and  one  tooth 
Stuck  from  shrunken  gums.    A  bough 
Overshadowed  her  the  while  she  gripped 
A  pail  in  either  hand.    One  dripped 
Clear  water;  one,  ethereal  fire. 
Then  to  the  Graia  spoke  the  friar: 
"Have  mercy!    Tell  me  your  desire 
And  what  you  are?" 

Then  the  Graia  said 
"My  body  is  Nature  and  my  head 
[240] 


FRIAR  YVES 

Is  Man,  and  God  has  given  me 

A  seeing  spirit,  strong  and  free, 

Though  by  a  single  eye,  as  even 

Man  has  one  vision  at  a  time. 

I  lift  my  pails  up;  mark  them  well. 

With  this  fire  I  will  burn  up  heaven, 

And  with  this  water  I  will  quench 

The  flames  of  hell's  remotest  trench, 

That  men  may  work  in  righteousness. 

Not  for  the  fears  of  an  after  hell, 

Nor  for  the  rewards  which  heaven  will  bless 

The  soul  with  when  the  mountains  nod 

And  the  sun  darkens,  but  for  love 

Of  Man  and  Life,  and  love  of  God. 

Now  look!" 

She  dashbd  the  pail  of  fire 
Against  the  vault  of  heaven.    It  fell 
As  would  a  canopy  of  blue 
Burned  by  a  soldier's  careless  torch. 
She  dashed  the  water  into  hell, 
And  a  great  steam  rose  up  with  the  smell 
Of  gaseous  coals,  which  seemed  to  scorch 
All  things  which  on  the  good  earth  grew. 
"Now,"  said  the  Graia,  "loiterer, 
Awake  from  slumber,  rise  and  speed 
To  fight  for  the  Holy  Sepulcher — 


TOWARD  THE  GULF 

Nothing  is  left  but  Life,  indeed — 

I  have  burned  heaven!  I  have  quenched  hell." 

Friar  Yves  no  longer  slept; 
Friar  Yves  awoke  and  wept. 


242 


THE  EIGHTH  CRUSADE 

June,  but  we  kept  the  fire  place  piled  with  logs, 

And  every  day  it  rained.    And  every  morning 

I  heard  the  wind  and  rain  among  the  leaves. 

Try  as  I  would  my  spirits  grew  no  better. 

What  was  it?    Was  I  ill  or  sick  in  mind? 

I  spent  the  whole  day  working  with  my  hands, 

For  there  was  brush  to  clear  and  corn  to  plant 

Between  the  gusts  of  rain;  and  there  at  night 

I  sat  about  the  room  and  hugged  the  fire. 

And  the  rain  dripped  and  the  wind  blew,  we  shivered 

For  cold  and  it  was  June.    I  ached  all  through 

For  my  hard  labor,  why  did  muscles  grow  not 

To  hardness  and  cure  body,  if  'twere  body, 

Or  soul  if  it  were  soul  ? 

But  there  at  night 

As  I  sat  aching,  worn,  before  the  hour 
Of  sleep,  and  restless  in  this  interval 
Of  nothingness,  the  silence  out-of-doors, 
Timed  by  the  dripping  rain,  and  by  the  slap 
Of  cards  upon  a  table  by  a  boarder 
Who  passed  the  time  in  playing  solitaire, 
Sometimes  my  ancient  host  would  fill  his  pipe, 
And  scrape  away  the  dust  of  long  past  years 

[243] 


TOWARD  THE  GULF 

To  show  me  what  had  happened  in  his  life. 
And  as  he  smoked  and  talked  his  aged  wife 
Would  parallel  his  theme,  as  a  brooks'  branches 
Formed  by  a  slender  island,  flow  together. 
Or  yet  again  she'd  intercalate  a  touch, 
An  episode  or  version.    And  sometimes 
He'd  make  her  hush;  or  sometimes  he'd  suspend 
While  she  went  on  to  what  she  wished  to  finish, 
When  he'd  resume.    They  talked  together  thus. 
He  found  the  story  and  began  to  tell  it, 
And  she  hung  on  his  story,  told  it  too. 

This  night  the  rain  came  down  in  buckets  full, 

And  Claude  who  brought  the  logs  in  showed  his  breath 

Between  the  opening  of  the  outer  door 

And  the  swift  on-rush  of  the  room's  warm  air. 

And  my  host  who  had  hoed  the  whole  day  long, 

Hearty  at  eighty  years,  sat  with  his  pipe 

Reading  the  organ  of  the  Adventists, 

His  wife  beside  him  knitting. 

On  the  table 

Are  several  magazines  with  their  monthly  grist 
Of  stories  and  of  pictures.    0  such  stories! 
Who  writes  these  stories?    How  does  it  happen  people 
Are  born  into  the  world  to  read  these  stories  ? 
But  anyway  the  lamp  is  very  bad, 
And  every  bone  in  me  aches — and  why  always 

[244! 


THE  EIGHTH  CRUSADE 

Must  one  be  either  reading,  knitting,  talking? 
Why  not  sit  quietly  and  think? 

At  last 

Between  the  clicking  needles  and  the  slap 
Of  cards  upon  the  table  and  the  swish 
Of  rain  upon  the  window  my  host  speaks: 
"It  says  here  when  the  Germans  are  defeated, 
And  that  means  when  the  Turks  are  beaten  too, 
The  Christian  world  will  take  back  Palestine, 
And  drive  the  Turks  out.    God  be  praised,  I  hope  so." 
"Amen"  breaks  in  the  wife.    "May  we  both  live 
To  see  the  day.    Perhaps  you'll  get  your  trunk  back 
From  Jaffa  if  the  Allies  win." 

To  me 

The  wife  turns  and  goes  on,  "He  has  a  trunk, 
At  least  his  trunk  went  on  to  Jaffa,  and 
It  never  came  back.    The  bishop's  trunk  came  back, 
But  his  trunk  never  came." 

And  then  the  husband: 
"What  are  you  saying,  mother,  you  go  on 
As  if  our  friend  here  knew  the  story  too. 
And  then  you  talk  as  if  our  hope  of  the  war 
Was  centered  on  recovering  that  trunk." 

"Oh,  not  at  all 
But  if  the  Allies  win,  and  the  trunk  is  there 

[2451 


TOWARD  THE  GULF 

In  Jaffa  you  might  get  it  back.    You  know 
You'll  never  get  it  back  while  infidels 
Rule  Palestine." 

The  husband  says  to  me: 

"It  looks  as  if  she  thought  that  trunk  of  mine, 
Which  went  to  Jaffa  fifty  years  ago, 
Is  in  existence  yet,  when  chances  are 
They  kept  it  for  awhile,  and  sold  it  off, 
Or  threw  it  away." 

"They  never  threw  it  away. 
Why  I  made  him  a  dozen  shirts  or  more, 
And  knitted  him  a  lot  of  lovely  socks, 
And  made  him  neck-ties,  and  that  trunk  contained 
Everything  that  a  man  might  need  in  absence 
A  year  from  home.  .  And  yet  they  threw  it  away!" 

"They  might  have  done  so." 

"But  they  never  did. 

Perhaps  they  threw  your  cabinet  tools  away?" 
"They  were  too  valuable." 

"Too  valuable, 
Fine  socks  and  shirts  are  worthless  are  they,  yes." 

"Not  worthless,  but  fine  tools  are  valuable." 

He  turns  to  me:  "I  lost  a  box  of  tools 

Sent  on  to  Jaffa,  too.    The  scheme  was  this: 

[246] 


THE  EIGHTH  CRUSADE 

To  work  at  cabinet  making  while  observing 
Conditions  there  in  Palestine,  and  get  ready 
To  drive  the  Turks  from  Palestine." 

What's  this? 

I  rub  my  eyes  and  wake  up  to  this  story. 
I'm  here  in  Illinois,  in  a  farmer's  house 
Who  boards  stray  fishermen,  and  takes  me  in. 
And  in  a  moment  Turks  and  Palestine, 
And  that  old  dream  of  Louis  the  Saint  arise 
And  show  me  how  the  world  is  small,  and  a  man 
Native  to  Illinois  may  travel  forth 
And  mix  his  life  with  ancient  things  afar. 
To-day  be  raising  corn  here  and  next  month 
Walking  the  streets  of  Jaffa,  in  Mycenae, 
Digging  for  Grecian  relics. 

So  I  asked 

"Were  you  in  Palestine?"    And  the  wife  spoke  quick: 
"He  didn't  get  there,  that's  the  joke  of  it." 
And  the  husband  said:  "It  wasn't  such  a  joke. 
You  see  it  was  this  way,  myself  and  the  bishop, 
He  lived  in  Springfield,  I  in  Pleasant  Plains, 
Had  planned  to  meet  in  Switzerland." 

"Montreaux" 
The  wife  broke  in. 

"Montreaux"  the  husband  added. 
"You  said  you  two  had  planned  it,"  she  went  on. 

[247] 


TOWARD  THE  GULF 

Now  looking  over  specks  and  speaking  louder: 
"The  bishop  came  to  him,  he  planned  it  out. 
My  husband  didn't  plan  the  trip  at  all. 
He  knows  the  bishop  planned  it." 

Then  the  husband: 

"Oh  for  that  matter  he  spoke  of  it  first, 
And  I  acceded  and  we  worked  it  out. 
He  was  to  go  ahead  of  me,  I  was 
To  come  in  later,  soon  as  I  could  raise 
What  funds  my  congregation  could  afford 
To  spare  for  this  adventure." 

"Guess,"  she  said, 
"How  much  it  was." 

I  shook  my  head  and  she 
Said  in  a  lowered  and  a  tragic  voice: 
"Four  hundred  dollars,  and  you  can  believe 
It  strapped  his  church  to  raise  so  great  a  sum. 
And  if  they  hadn't  thought  that  Christ  would  come 
Scarcely  before  the  plan  could  be  put  through 
Of  winning  back  the  Holy  Land,  that  sum 
Had  never  been  made  up  and  put  in  gold 
For  him  to  carry  in  a  chamois  belt." 

And  then  the  husband  said:  "Mother,  be  still, 
I'll  tell  our  friend  the  story  if  you'll  let  me." 
[248] 


THE  EIGHTH  CRUSADE 

"I'm  done,"  she  said.    "I  wanted  to  say  that. 
Go  on,"  she  said. 

And  so  he  started  over: 

"The  bishop  came  to  me  and  said  he  thought 
The  Advent  would  be  June  of  seventy-six. 
This  was  the  winter  of  eighteen  seventy-one. 
He  said  he  had  a  dream;  and  in  this  dream 
An  angel  stood  beside  him,  told  him  so, 
And  told  him  to  get  me  and  go  to  Jaffa, 
And  live  there,  learn  the  people  and  the  country, 
We  were  to  live  disguised  the  better  to  learn 
The  people  and  the  country.    I  was  to  work 
At  my  trade  as  a  cabinet  maker,  he 
At  carpentry,  which  was  his  trade,  and  so 
No  one  would  know  us,  or  suspect  our  plan. 
And  thus  we  could  live  undisturbed  and  work, 
And  get  all  things  in  readiness,  that  in  time 
The  Lord  would  send  us  power,  and  do  all  things. 
We  were  the  messengers  to  go  ahead 
And  make  the  ways  straight,  so  I  told  her  of  it." 

"You  told  me,  yes,  but  my  trust  was  as  great 
As  yours  was  in  the  bishop,  little  the  good 
To  tell  me  of  it." 

"Well,  I  told  you  of  it. 
And  she  said,  'If  the  Lord  commands  you  so 

[249] 


TOWARD  THE  GULF 

You  must  obey/    And  so  she  knit  the  socks 
And  made  that  trunk  of  things,  as  she  has  said, 
And  in  six  weeks  I  sailed  from  Philadelphia." 

"'Twas  nearer  two  months,"  said  the  wife. 

"Perhaps, 

Somewhere  between  six  weeks  and  that.    The  bishop 
Left  Springfield  in  a  month  from  our  first  talk. 
I  knew,  for  I  went  over  when  he  left. 
And  I  remember  how  his  poor  wife  cried, 
And  how  the  children  cried.    He  had  a  family 
Of  some  eight  children." 

"Only  seven  then, 
The  son  named  David  died  the  year  before." 

"Mother,  you're  right,  'twas  seven  children  then. 
The  oldest  was  not  more  than  twelve,  I  think, 
And  all  the  children  cried,  and  at  the  train 
His  congregation  almost  to  a  man 
Was  there  to  see  him  off." 

"Well,  one  was  missing. 
You  know,  you  know,"  the  wife  said  pregnantly. 

"I'll  come  to  that  in  time,  if  you'll  be  still. 
Well,  so  the  bishop  left,  and  in  six  weeks, 

[250] 


THE  EIGHTH  CRUSADE 

Or  somewhere  there,  I  started  for  Montreaux 

To  meet  the  bishop.    Shipped  ahead  my  trunk 

To  Jaffa  as  the  bishop  did.    But  now 

I  must  tell  you  my  dream.    The  night  before 

I  reached  Montreaux  I  had  a  wondrous  dream: 

I  saw  the  bishop  on  the  station  platform 

His  face  with  brandy  blossoms  splotched  and  wearing 

His  gold  head  cane.    And  sure  enough  next  day 

As  I  stepped  from  the  train  I  saw  the  bishop 

His  face  with  brandy  blossoms  splotched  and  wearing 

His  gold  head  cane.    And  I  thought  something  wrong, 

And  still  I  didn't  act  upon  the  thought." 

"I  should  say  not,"  the  wife  broke  in  again. 

"Oh,  well  what  could  I  do,  if  I  had  thought 

More  clearly  than  I  did  that  things  were  wrong. 

You  can't  uproot  the  confidence  of  years 

Because  of  dreams.    And  as  to  brandy  blossoms 

I  knew  his  face  was  red,  but  didn't  know, 

Or  think  just  then,  that  brandy  made  it  red. 

And  so  I  went  up  to  the  house  he  lived  in — 

A  mansion  beautiful,  and  we  sat  down. 

And  he  sat  there  bolt  upright  in  a  rocker, 

Hands  spread  upon  his  knees,  his  black  eyes  bigger 

Than  I  had  ever  seen  them,  eyeing  me 

Silently  for  a  moment,  when  he  said: 

'What  money  did  you  bring?'    And  so  I  told  him. 


TOWARD  THE  GULF 

And  he  said  quickly  'let  me  have  it.'    So 

I  took  my  belt  off,  counted  out  the  gold 

And  gave  it  to  him.    And  he  took  it,  thrust  it 

With  this  hand  in  this  pocket,  that  in  that, 

And  sat  there  and  said  nothing  more,  just  looked! 

And  then  before  a  word  was  spoke  again 

I  heard  a  step  upon  the  stair,  the  stair 

Came  down  into  this  room  where  we  were  sitting. 

And  I  looked  up,  and  there — I  rubbed  my  eyes — 

I  looked  again,  rose  from  my  chair  to  see, 

And  saw  descending  the  most  lovely  woman, 

Who  was"— 

"A  lovely  woman,"   sneered  the  wife 
"Well,  she  was  just  affinity  to  the  bishop, 
That's  what  she  was." 

"Affinity  is  right — 

You  see  she  was  the  leader  in  the  choir, 
And  she  had  run  away  with  him,  or  rather 
Had  gone  abroad  upon  another  boat 
And  met  him  in  Montreaux.    Now  from  this  time 
For  forty  hours  or  so  all  is  a  blank. 
I  just  remember  trying  to  speak  and  choking, 
And  flying  from  the  room,  the  bishop  clutching 
At  my  coat  sleeve  to  hold  me.    After  that 
I  can't  recall  a  thing  until  I  saw 
A  little  cottage  way  up  in  the  Alps. 

[252] 


THE  EIGHTH  CRUSADE 

I  was  knocking  at  the  door,  was  faint  and  sick, 

The  door  was  opened  and  they  took  me  in, 

And  warmed  me  with  a  glass  of  wine,  and  tucked  me 

In  a  good  bed  where  I  slept  half  a  week. 

It  seems  in  my  bewilderment  I  wandered, 

Ran,  stumbled,  climbed  for  forty  hours  or  so 

By  rocky  chasms,  up  the  piney  slopes." 

"He  might  have  lost  his  life,"  the  wife  exclaimed. 

"These  were  the  kindest  people  in  the  world, 
A  French  family.    They  gave  me  splendid  food, 
And  when  I  left  two  francs  to  reach  the  place 
Where  lived  the  English  Consul,  who  arranged 
After  some  days  for  money  for  my  passage 
Back  to  America,  and  in  six  weeks 
I  preached  a  sermon  here  in  Pleasant  Plains." 

"Beware  of  false  prophets  was  the  text!"  she  said. 

And  I  who  heard  this  story  through  spoke  up: 

"The  thing  about  this  that  I  fail  to  get 

Concerns  this  woman,  the  affinity. 

If,  as  seems  evident,  she  and  the  bishop 

Had  planned  this  run-a-way  and  used  the  faith, 

And  you,  the  congregation  to  get  money 

To  do  it  with,  or  used  you  in  particular 

To  get  the  money  for  themselves  to  live  on 

[253] 


TOWARD  THE  GULF 

After  they  had  arrived  there  in  Montreaux, 

If  all  this  be"  I  said,  "why  did  this  woman 

Descend  just  at  the  moment  when  he  asked  you 

For  the  money  that  you  had.    You  might  have  seen  her 

Before  you  gave  the  money,  if  you  had 

You  might  have  held  it  back." 

"I  would  indeed, 
You  can  be  sure  I  should  have  held  it  back." 

And  then  the  old  wife  gasped  and  dropped  her  knitting. 

"Now,  James,  you  let  me  answer  that,  I  know. 
She  was  done  with  the  bishop,  that's  the  reason. 
Be  still  and  let  me  answer.    Here's  the  story: 
We  found  out  later  that  the  bishop's  trunk 
And  kit  of  tools  had  been  returned  from  Jaffa 
There  to  Montreaux,  were  there  that  very  day, 
Which  means  the  bishop  never  meant  to  go 
To  Palestine  at  all,  but  meant  to  meet 
This  woman  in  Montreaux  and  live  with  her. 
Well,  that  takes  money.    So  he  used  my  husband 
To  get  that  money.    Now  you  wonder  I  see 
Why  she  would  chance  the  spoiling  of  the  scheme, 
Descend  into  the  room  before  my  husband 
Had  given  up  this  money,  and  this  money, 
You  see,  was  treated  as  a  common  fund 
Belonging  to  the  church  and  to  be  used 

[254] 


THE  EIGHTH  CRUSADE 

To  get  back  Palestine,  and  so  the  bishop 

As  head  of  the  church,  superior  to  my  husband, 

Could  say  'give  me  the  money' — that  was  natural, 

My  husband  could  not  be  surprised  at  that, 

Or  question  it.    Well,  why  did  she  descend 

And  almost  lose  the  money?    Oh,  the  cat! 

I  know  what  she  did,  as  well  as  I  had  seen 

Her  do  it.    Yes,  she  listened  at  the  landing. 

And  when  she  heard  my  husband  tell  the  sum 

Which  he  had  brought,  it  wasn't  enough  to  please  her, 

And  Satan  entered  in  her  heart,  and  she 

Waited  until  she  heard  the  bishop's  pockets 

Clink  with  the  double  eagles,  then  descended 

To  expose  the  bishop  and  disgrace  him  there 

And  everywhere  in  all  the  world.    Now  listen: 

She  got  that  money  or  the  most  of  it 

In  spite  of  what  she  did.    For  in  six  weeks 

After  my  husband  had  returned,  she  walked, 

The  brazen  thing,  the  public  streets  of  Springfield 

As  jaunty  as  you  please,  and  pretty  soon 

The  bishop  died  and  all  the  papers  printed 

The  story  of  his  shame." 

She  had  scarce  finished 

When  the  man  at  solitaire  threw  down  the  deck 
And  make  a  whacking  noise  and  rose  and  came 
Around  in  front  of  us  and  stood  and  looked 
The  old  man  and  old  woman  over,  me 

[255] 


TOWARD  THE  GULF 

He  studied  too.    Then  in  an  organ  voice: 
"Is  there  a  single  verse  in  the  New  Testament 
That  hasn't  sprouted  one  church  anyway, 
Letting  alone  the  verses  that  have  sprouted 
Two,  three  or  four  or  five?    I  know  of  one: 
Where  is  it  that  it  says  that  "Jesus  wept"? 
Let's  found  a  church  on  that  verse,  "Jesus  wept." 
With  that  he  went  out  in  the  rain  and  slammed 
The  door  behind  him. 

The  old  clergyman 

Had  fallen  asleep.    His  wife  looked  up  and  said, 
"That  man  is  crazy,  ain't  he?    I'm  afraid." 


[256] 


THE   BISHOPS   DREAM   OF   THE   HOLY 
SEPULCHRE 

A  lassie  sells  the  War  Cry  on  the  corner 

And  the  big  drum  booms,  and  the  raucous  brass  horns 

Mingle  with  the  cymbals  and  the  silver  triangle. 

I  stand  a  moment  listening,  then  my  friend 

Who  studies  all  religions,  finds  a  wonder 

In  orphic  spectacles  like  this,  lays  hold 

Upon  my  arm  and  draws  me  to  a  door 

Through  which  we  look  and  see  a  room  of  seats, 

A  platform  at  the  end,  a  table  on  it, 

And  signs  upon  the  wall,  "Jesus  is  Waiting," 

And  "God  is  Love." 

We  enter,  take  a  seat. 

The  band  comes  in  and  fills  the  room  to  bursting 
With  horns  and  drums.    They  cease  and  feet  are  heard, 
The  crowd  has  followed,  half  the  seats  are  full. 
After  a  prayer,  a  song,  the  captain  mounts 
The  platform  by  the  table  and  begins: 
"Praise  God  so  many  girls  are  here  to-night, 
And  Sister  Trickey,  by  the  grace  of  God 
Saved  from  the  wrath  to  come,  will  speak  to  you." 
So  Sister  Trickey  steps  upon  the  platform, 
A  woman  nearing  forty,  one  would  say. 

[257] 


TOWARD  THE  GULF 

Blue-eyed,  fair  skinned,  and  yellow  haired,  a  figure 
Once  trim  enough,  no  doubt,  grown  stout  at  last. 
She  was  a  pretty  woman  in  her  time, 
'Twas  plain  to  see.    A  shrewd  intelligence 
From  living  in  the  world  shines  in  her  face. 
We  settle  down  to  hear  from  Sister  Trickey 
And  in  a  moment  she  begins: 

"Young  girls: 

I  thank  the  Lord  for  Jesus,  for  he  saved  me, 
I  thank  the  Lord  for  Jesus  every  hour. 
No  woman  ever  stained  with  redder  sins 
Had  greater  grace  than  mine.    Praise  God  for  Jesus! 
Praise  God  for  blood  that  washes  sins  away! 
I  was  a  woman  fallen  till  Lord  Jesus 
Forgave  me,  helped  me  up  and  made  me  clean. 
My  name  is  Lilah  Trickey.    Let  me  tell  you 
How  music  was  my  tempter.    Oh,  you  girls, 
If  there  be  one  before  me  who  can  sing 
Beware  the  devil  and  beware  your  voice 
That  it  be  used  for  Jesus,  not  for  Satan." 

"I  had  a  voice,  was  leader  of  the  choir, 
But  Satan  entered  in  my  voice  to  tempt 
The  bishop  of  the  church,  and  in  my  heart 
To  tempt  and  use  the  bishop;  in  the  bishop 
Old  Satan  slipped  to  lure  me  from  the  path. 
He  fell  from  grace  for  listening.    And  I 
[258] 


THE  BISHOPS  DREAM  OF  HOLY  SEPULCHRE 

Whose  voice  had  turned  him  over  to  the  devil 

Fell  as  he  fell.    He  dragged  me  down  with  him. 

No  use  to  make  it  long,  one  word's  enough: 

Old  Satan  is  the  first  word  and  the  last, 

And  all  between  is  nothing.    It's  enough 

To  say  the  bishop  and  myself  eloped 

Went  to  Montreaux.    He  left  a  wife  and  children. 

And  I  poor  silly  thing  with  promises 

Of  culture  of  my  voice  in  Paris,  lost 

Good  name  and  all.    And  he  lost  all  as  well. 

Good  name,  his  soul  I  fear,  because  he  took 

The  church's  money  saying  he  would  use  it 

To  win  the  Holy  Sepulchre,  in  fact 

Intending  all  the  while  to  use  the  money 

For  travel  and  for  keeping  up  a  house 

With  me  as  soul-mate.    For  he  never  meant 

To  let  me  go  to  Paris  for  my  voice, 

He  never  got  enough  to  pay  for  that. 

On  that  point  he  betrayed  me,  now  I  see 

JTwas  God  who  used  him  to  deceive  me  there, 

And  leave  me  to  return  to  Springfield  broken, 

An  out-cast,  fallen  woman,  shamed  and  scorned." 

"We  took  a  house  in  Montreaux,  plain  enough 
As  we  looked  at  it  passing,  but  within 
'Twas  sweet  and  fair  as  Satan  could  desire: 
Engravings  on  the  wall  and  marble  mantels, 
Gilt  clocks  upon  the  mantels,  lovely  rugs, 

[259] 


TOWARD  THE  GULF 

Chests  full  of  linen,  silver,  pewter,  china, 

Soft  beds  with  canopies  of  figured  satin, 

The  scent  of  apple  blossoms  through  the  rooms. 

A  little  garden,  vines  against  the  wall. 

There  were  the  lake  and  mountains.    Oh,  but  Satan 

Baited  the  hook  with  beauty.    But  the  bishop 

Seemed  self-absorbed,  depressed  and  never  smiled. 

And  every  time  his  face  came  close  to  mine 

I  smelled  the  brandy  on  him.    Conscience  whipped 

Its  venomed  tail  against  his  peace  of  mind. 

And  so  he  took  the  brandy  to  benumb 

The  sting  of  conscience  and  to  dull  the  pain. 

He  told  me  he  had  business  in  Montreaux 

Which  would  require  some  weeks,  would  there  be  met 

By  people  who  had  money  for  him.    I 

Was  twenty-three  and  green,  besides  I  walked 

In  dreamland  thinking  of  the  promised  schooling 

In  Paris — oh  'twas  music,  as  I  said."  .  .  . 

"At  last  one  day  he  said  a  friend  was  coming, 

And  he  went  to  the  station.    Very  soon 

I  heard  their  steps,  the  bishop  and  his  friend. 

They  entered.    I  was  curious  and  sat 

Upon  the  stair-way's  landing  just  to  hear. 

And  this  is  what  I  heard.    The  bishop  asked: 

'You've  brought  some  money,  how  much  have  you 

brought?' 

The  man  replied  'four  hundred  dollars.'    Then 
[260! 


THE  BISHOP'S  DREAM  OF  HOLY  SEPULCHRE 

The  bishop  said:  Til  take  it/    In  a  moment 
I  heard  the  clinking  gold  and  heard  the  bishop 
Putting  it  in  his  pocket." 

"  God  forgive  me, 
I  never  was  so  angry  in  my  life. 
The  bishop  had  been  talking  in  big  figures, 
We  would  have  thousands  for  my  voice  and  Paris, 
And  here  was  just  a  paltry  sum.    Scarce  knowing 
Just  what  I  did,  perhaps  I  wished  to  see 
The  American  who  brought  the  money — well, 
No  matter  what  it  was,  I  walked  in  view 
Upon  the  landing,  stood  there  for  a  moment 
And  saw  our  visitor,  a  clergyman 
From  all  appearances.    He  stared,  grew  red, 
Large  eyed  and  apoplectic,  then  he  rose, 
Walked  side-ways,  backward,  stumbled  toward  the  door, 
Rattled  with  shaking  hand  the  knob  and  jerked 
The  door  ajar,  with  open  mouth  backed  out 
Upon  the  street  and  ran.    I  heard  him  run 
A  square  at  least." 

"The  bishop  looked  at  me, 
His  face  all  brandy  blossoms,  left  the  room, 
Came  back  at  once  with  brandy  on  his  breath. 
And  all  that  day  was  tippling,  went  to  bed 
So  drunk  I  had  to  take  his  clothing  off 
And  help  him  in/' 

[261] 


TOWARD  THE  GULF 

"Young  girls,  beware  of  music, 
Save  only  hymns  and  sacred  oratorios. 
Beware  the  theatre  and  dancing  hall. 
Take  lesson  from  my  fate. 

"  The  morning  came. 
The  bishop  called  me,  he  was  very  ill 
And  pale  with  fear.    He  had  a  dream  that  night. 
Satan  had  used  him  and  abandoned  him. 
And  Death,  whom  only  Jesus  can  put  down, 
Was  standing  by  the  bed.    He  called  to  me, 
And  said  to  me: 

"'That  money's  in  that  drawer. 
Use  it  to  reach  America,  but  use  it 
To  send  my  body  back.    Death's  in  the  corner 
Behind  that  cabinet — there — see  him  look! 
I  had  a  dream — go  get  a  pen  and  paper, 
And  write  down  what  I  tell  you.    God  forgive  me — 
Oh  what  a  blasphemer  am  I.    O,  woman, 
To  lie  here  dying  and  to  know  that  God 
Has  left  me — hell  awaits  me — horrible! 
Last  night  I  dreamed  this  man  who  brought  the  money, 
This  man  and  I  were  walking  from  Damascus, 
And  in  a  trice  came  down  to  Olivet. 
Just  then  great  troops  of  men  sprang  up  around  us 
And  hailed  us  as  expecting  our  approach. 
And  there  I  saw  the  faces — hundreds  maybe, 
[262! 


THE  BISHOP'S  DREAM  OF  HOLY  SEPULCHRE 

Of  congregations  who  had  trusted  me 
In  all  the  long  past  years — Oh,  sinful  woman, 
Why  did  you  cross  my  path/  he  moaned  at  times, 
'And  wreck  my  ministry  ' 

u<And  so  these  crowds 

Armed  as  it  seemed,  exulted,  called  me  general, 
And  shouted  forward.    So  we  ran  like  mad 
And  came  before  a  building  with  a  dome — 
You  know — I've  seen  a  picture  of  it  somewhere. 
And  so  the  crowds  yelled :  let  the  bishop  enter 
And  see  the  sepulchre,  while  we  keep  guard. 
They  pushed  me  in.     But  when  I  was  inside 
There  was  no  dome,  above  us  was  the  sky, 
And  what  seemed  walls  was  nothing  but  a  fence. 
Before  us  was  a  stable  with  a  stall 
Where  two  cows  munched  the  hay.    There  was  a  farmer 
Who  with  a  pitchfork  bedded  down  the  stall. 
"Where  is  the  holy  sepulchre?  "    I  asked— 
"  My  army's  at  the  door."    He  kept  at  work 
And  never  raised  his  eyes  and  only  said : 
"  Don't  know;  I  haven't  time  for  things  like  that. 
You're  'bout  the  hundredth  man  who's  asked  me  that. 
We  don't  know  where  it  is,  nor  do  we  care. 
We  live  here  and  we  knew  him,  so  we  feel 
Less  interest  than  you.    But  have  you  thought 
If  you  should  find  it  it  would  only  be 
A  tomb  like  other  tombs?    Why  look  at  this: 

[263] 


TOWARD  THE  GULF 

Here  is  the  very  manger  where  he  lay — 

What  is  it  ?    Just  a  manger  filled  with  straw. 

These  cows  are  not  the  very  cows  you  know — 

But  cows  are  cows  in  every  age  and  place. 

I  think  that  board  there  has  been  nailed  on  since. 

Outside  of  that  the  place  is  just  the  same. 

Now  what's  the  good  of  seeing  it?    His  mother 

Lay  in  that  corner  there,  what  if  she  did  ? 

That  lantern  on  the  wall's  the  very  one 

They  came  to  see  the  child  with  from  the  inn — 

What  of  it  ?    Take  your  army  and  go  on, 

And  leave  me  with  my  barn  and  with  my  cows." 

; '  So  all  the  glory  vanished !    Devil  magic 
Stripped  all  the  glory  off.    No  angels  singing, 
No  star  of  Bethlehem,  no  magi  kneeling, 
No  Mary  crowned,  no  Jesus  King,  no  mystic 
Blood  for  sins'  remission — just  a  barn, 
A  stall,  two  cows,  a  lantern — all  the  glory 
Swept  from  the  gospel.    That's  my  punishment: 
My  poor  weak  brain  filled  full  of  all  this  dream, 
Which  seems  as  real  as  life — to  lie  here  dying 
Too  weak  to  shake  the  dream!    To  see  Death  there 
Behind  that  cabinet — there — see  him  look — 
By  God  forsaken — all  theology, 
All  mystery,  all  wonder,  all  delight 
Of  spiritual  vision  swept  away  as  clean 
As  winds  sweep  up  the  clouds,  and  thus  to  see 

[264] 


THE  BISHOPS  DREAM  OF  HOLY  SEPULCHRE 

While  dying,  just  a  manger,  and  two  cows, 
A  lantern  on  the  wall. 

"'And  thus  to  see, 

For  blasphemy  that  duped  an  honest  heart, 
And  took  the  pitiful  dollars  of  the  flock 
To  win  you  with — oh,  woman,  woman,  woman, 
A  barn,  a  stall,  a  lantern  limned  so  clear 
In  such  a  daylight  of  clear  seeing  senses 
That  all  the  splendor,  the  miraculous 
Wonder  of  the  virgin,  nimbused  child, 
The  star  that  followed  till  it  rested  over 
The  manger  (such  a  manger)  all  are  wrecked, 
All  blotted  from  belief,  all  snatched  away 
From  hands  pushed  off  by  God,  no  longer  holding 
The  robes  of  God.' 

"And  so  the  bishop  raved 
While  I  stood  terrified,  since  I  could  feel 
Death  in  the  room,  and  almost  see  the  monster 
Behind  the  cabinet. 

"Then  the  bishop  said: 

'  'My  dream  went  on.    I  crossed  the  stable  yard 
And  passed  into  a  place  of  tombs.    And  look! 
Before  I  knew  I  stepped  into  a  hole, 
A  sunken  grave  with  just  a  slab  at  head, 
And  "Jesus"  carven  on  it,  nothing  else, 
No  date,  no  birth,  no  parentage/" 

[265] 


TOWARD  THE  GULF 

'"I  lie 

Tormented  by  the  pictures  of  this  dream. 
Woman,  take  to  your  death  bed  with  clear  mind 
Of  gospel  faith,  clean  conscience,  sins  forgiven. 
The  thoughts  that  we  must  suffer  with  and  die  with 
Are  worth  the  care  of  all  the  days  of  life. 
All  life  should  be  directed  to  this  end, 
Lest  when  the  mind  lies  fallen,  vultures  swoop, 
And  with  their  wings  blot  out  the  sun  of  faith, 
And  with  their  croakings  drown  the  voice  of  God/ 

"He  ceased,  became  delirious.    So  he  died, 
And  I  still  unrepentant  buried  him 
There  in  Montreaux,  and  with  what  gold  remained 
Went  on  to  Paris. 

"See  how  I  was  marked 
For  God's  salvation. 

"There  I  went  to  see 
The  celebrated  teacher  Jean  Strakosch, 
Who  looked  at  me  with  insolent,  calm  eyes, 
And  face  impassive,  let  me  sing  a  scale, 
Then  shook  his  head.    A  diva,  as  I  thought, 
Came  in  just  then.    They  talked  in  French,  and  I, 
Prickling  from  head  to  foot  with  shame,  ignored, 
Left  standing  like  a  fool,  passed  from  the  room. 
So  music  turned  on  me,  but  God  received  me, 

[266] 


THE  BISHOPS  DREAM  OF  HOLY  SEPULCHRE 

And  I  came  back  to  Springfield.    But  the  Lord 
Made  life  too  hard  for  me  without  the  fold. 
I  was  so  shunned  and  scorned,  I  had  no  place 
Save  with  the  fallen,  with  the  mockers,  drinkers. 
Thus  being  in  conviction,  after  struggles, 
And  many  prayers  I  found  salvation,  found 
My  work  in  life:  which  is  to  talk  to  girls 
And  stand  upon  this  platform  and  relate 
My  story  for  their  good." 

She  ceased.    Amens 

Went  up  about  the  room.    The  big  drum  boomed, 
And  the  raucous  brass  horns  mingled  with  the  cymbals, 
The  silver  triangle  and  the  singing  voices. 

My  friend  and  I  arose  and  left  the  room. 


267] 


NEANDERTHAL 

"Then  what  is  life?"  I  cried.    And  with  that  cry 
I  woke  from  deeper  slumber — was  it  sleep? — 
And  saw  a  hooded  figure  standing  by 
The  bed  whereon  I  lay. 

"Why  do  you  keep, 
O  spirit  beautiful  and  swift,  this  guard 
About  my  slumber?    Shelley,  from  the  deep 
Why  do  you  come  with  veiled  face,  mighty  bard, 
As  that  unearthly  shape  was  veiled  to  you 
At  Casa  Magni?" 

Then  the  room  was  starred 
With  light  as  I  was  speaking,  and  I  knew 
The  god,  my  brother,  from  whose  face  the  veil 
Melted  as  mist. 

"What  mission  fair  and  true, 
While  I  am  sleeping,  brings  you?    For  I  pale 
Amid  this  solemn  stillness,  for  your  face 
Unutterably  majestic." 

As  when  the  dale 

At  midnight  echoes  for  a  little  space, 
The  night-bird's  cry,  the  god  responded  "Come," 
[268] 


NEANDERTHAL 

And  nothing  more.    I  left  my  bed  apace, 
And  followed  him  with  wings  above  the  gloom 
Of  clouds  like  chariots  driven  on  to  war, 
Between   whose   wheels   the    swift   moon    raced    and 
swum. 

A  mile  beneath  us  lay  the  earth,  afar 

Were  mountains  which  as  swift  as  thought  drew  near 

As  we  passed  over  pines,  where  many  a  star 

And  heaven's  light  made  every  frond  as  clear 

As  through  a  glass  or  in  the  lightning's  flash  .  .  . 

Yet  I  seemed  flying  from  an  olden  fear, 

A  bulk  of  black  that  sought  to  sting  or  gnash 

My  breast  or  side — which  was  myself,  it  seemed, 

The  flesh  or  thinking  part  of  me  grown  rash 

And  violent,  a  brain  soul  unredeemed, 

Which  sometime  earlier  in  the  grip  of  Death 

Forgot  its  terror  when  my  soul  which  streamed 

Like  ribbons  of  silk  fire,  with  quiet  breath 

Said  to  the  body,  as  it  were  a  thing 

Separate  and  indifferent:  "How  uneath 

That  fellow  turns,  while  I  am  safe  yet  cling 

Close  to  him,  both  another  and  the  same." 

Now  was  this  mood  reversed :  That  self  must  wing 

Its  fastest  flight  to  fly  him,  lest  he  maim 

With  fleshly  hands  my  better,  stronger  part, 

As  dragon  wings  my  flap  and  quench  a  flame.  .  .  . 

But  as  we  passed  o'er  empires  and  athwart 

[269] 


TOWARD  THE  GULF 

A  bellowing  strait,  beholding  bergs  and  floes 
And  running  tides  which  made  the  sinking  heart 
Rise  up  again  for  breath,  I  felt  how  close 
The  god,  my  brother,  was,  who  would  sustain 
My  wings  whatever  dangers  might  oppose, 
And  knowing  him  beside  me,  like  a  strain 
Of  music  were  his  thoughts,  though  nothing  yet 
Was  spoken  by  him. 

When  as  out  of  rain 

Suddenly  lights  may  break,  the  earth  was  set 
Beneath  us,  and  we  stood  and  paused  to  see 
The  Diissel  river  from  a  parapet 
Of  earth  and  rock.    Then  bending  curiously, 
As  reaching,  in  a  moment  with  his  hand 
He  scraped  the  turf  and  stones,  pried  up  a  key 
Of  harder  granite,  and  at  his  command, 
When  he  had  made  an  opening,  I  slid 
And  sank,  down,  down  through  the  Devonian  land 
Until  with  him  I  reached  a  cavern  hid 
From  every  eye  but  ours,  and  where  no  light 
But  from  our  faces  was,  a  pyramid 
Of  hills  that  walled  this  crypt  of  soundless  night. 
Then  in  a  mood,  it  seemed  more  fanciful, 
He  bent  again  and  raked,  and  to  my  sight 
Upheaved  and  held  the  remnant  of  a  skull — 
Gorilla's  or  a  man's,  I  could  not  guess. 
Yet  brutal  though  it  was,  it  was  a  hull 
[270] 


NEANDERTHAL 

Too  fine  and  large  to  house  the  nakedness 
Of  a  beast's  mind. 

But  as  I  looked  the  god 
Began  these  words:  "Before  the  iron  stress 
Of  the  north  pole's  dominion  fell,  he  trod 
The  wastes  of  Europe,  ere  the  Nile  was  made 
A  granary  for  the  east,  or  ere  the  clod 
In  Babylon  or  India  baked  was  laid 
For  hovels,  this  man  lived.    Ten  thousand  years 
Before  the  earliest  pyramid  cast  its  shade 
Upon  the  desolate  sands  this  thing  of  fears, 
Lusts,  hungers,  lived  and  hunted,  woke  and  slept, 
Mated,  produced  its  kind,  with  hairy  ears, 
And  tiger  eyes  sensed  all  that  you  accept 
In  terms  of  thought  or  vision  as  the  proof 
Of  immanent  Power  or  Love.    But  this  skull  kept 
The  intangible  meaning  out.    This  heavy  roof 
Of  brutish  bone  above  the  eyes  was  dead 
Even  to  lower  ethers,  no  behoof 
Of  seasons,  stars  or  skies  took,  though  they  bred 
Suspicions,  fears,  or  nervous  glances,  thought, 
Which  silent  as  a  lizard's  shadow  fled 
Before  it  graved  itself,  passed  over,  wrought 
No  vision,  only  pain,  which  he  deemed  pangs 
Of  hunger  or  of  thirst." 

As  you  have  sought 
The  meaning  of  life's  riddle,  since  it  hangs 


TOWARD  THE  GULF 

In  waking  or  in  slumber  just  above 
The  highest  reach  of  prophecy,  and  fangs 
With  poison  of  despair  all  moods  but  love, 
Behold  its  secret  lettered  on  this  brow 
Placed  by  your  own ! 

This  is  the  word  thereof: 

Change  and  progression  from  the  glazed  slough, 
Where  life  creeps  and  is  blind,  ascending  up 
The  jungled  slopes  for  prey  till  spirits  bow 
On  Calvaries  with  crosses,  take  the  cup 
Of  martyrdom  for  truth's  sake. 

It  may  be 

Men  of  to-day  make  monstrous  war,  sleep,  sup, 
Traffic,  build  shrines,  as  earliest  history 
Records  the  earliest  day,  and  that  the  race 
Is  what  it  was  in  virtue,  charity, 
And  nothing  better.    But  within  this  face 
No  light  shone  from  that  realm  where  Hindostan, 
Delving  in  numbers,  watching  stars  took  grace 
And  inspiration  to  explore  the  plan 
Of  heaven  and  earth.    And  of  the  scheme  the  test 
Is  not  five  thousand  years,  which  leave  the  van 
Just  where  it  was,  but  this  change  manifest 
In  fifty  thousand  years  between  the  mind 
Neanderthal's  and  Shelley's. 
[272] 


NEANDERTHAL 

Man  progressed 

Along  these  years,  found  eyes  where  he  was  blind, 
Put  instinct  under  thought,  crawled  from  the  cave, 
And  faced  the  sun,  till  somewhere  heaven's  wind 
Mixed  with  the  light  of  Lights  descending,  gave 
To  mind  a  touch  of  divinity,  making  whole 
An  undeveloped  growth. 

As  ships  that  brave 

Great  storms  at  sea  on  masts  a  flaming  coal 
From  heaven  catch,  bear  on,  so  man  was  wreathed 
Somewhere  with  lightning  and  became  a  soul. 
Into  his  nostrils  purer  fire  was  breathed 
Than  breath  of  life  itself,  and  by  a  leap, 
As  lightning  leaps  from  crag  to  crag,  what  seethed 
In  man  from  the  beginning  broke  the  sleep 
That  lay  on  consciousness  of  self,  with  eyes 
Awakened  saw  himself,  out  of  the  deep 
And  wonder  of  the  self  caught  the  surmise 
Of  Power  beyond  this  world,  and  felt  it  through 
The  flow  of  living. 

And  so  man  shall  rise 
From  this  illumination,  from  this  clue 
To  perfect  knowledge  that  this  Power  exists, 
And  what  man  is  to  this  Power,  even  as  you 
Have  left  Neanderthal  lost  in  the  mists 
And  ignorance  of  centuries  untold. 

[273] 


TOWARD  THE  GULF 

What  would  you  say  if  learned  geologists 
Out  of  the  rocks  and  caverns  should  unfold 
The  skulls  of  greater  races,  records,  books 
To  shame  us  for  our  day,  could  we  behold 
Therein  our  retrogression  ?    Wonder  looks 
In  vain  for  these,  discovers  everywhere 
Proof  of  the  root  which  darkly  bends  and  crooks 
Far  down  and  far  away;  a  stalk  more  fair 
Upspringing  finds  its  proof,  buds  on  the  stalk 
The  eye  may  see,  at  last  the  flowering  flare 
Of  man  to-day! 

I  see  the  things  which  balk, 
Retard,  divert,  draw  into  sluices  small, 
But  who  beholds  the  stream  turned  back  to  mock, 
Not  just  itself,  but  make  equivocal 
A  Universal  Reason,  Vision  ?    No. 
You  find  no  proof  of  this,  but  prodigal 
Proof  of  ascending  Life ! 

So  life  shall  flow 

Here  on  this  globe  until  the  final  fruit 
And  harvest.    As  it  were  until  the  glow 
Of  the  great  blossom  has  the  attribute 
In  essence,  color  of  eternal  things, 
And  shows  no  rim  between  its  hues  which  suit 
The  infinite  sky's.    Then  if  the  dead  earth  swings 
A  gleaned  and  stricken  field  amid  the  void 

[274] 


NEANDERTHAL 

What  matters  it  to  you,  a  soul  with  wings, 
Whether  it  be  replanted  or  destroyed  ? 
Has  it  not  served  you?" 

Now  his  voice  was  still, 

Which  in  such  discourse  had  been  thus  employed. 
And  in  that  lonely  cavern  dark  and  chill 
I  heard  again,  "Then  what  is  life?"    And  woke 
To  find  the  moonlight  on  the  window  sill 
That  which  had  seemed  his  presence.    And  a  cloak, 
Whose  hood  was  perked  upon  the  moonbeams,  made 
The  skull  of  the  Neanderthal.    The  smoke 
Blown  from  the  fireplace  formed  the  cavern's  shade. 
And  roaring  winds  blew  down  as  they  had  tuned 
The  voice  which  left  me  calm  and  unafraid. 


Urs 


THE  END  OF  THE  SEARCH 

There's  the  dragon  banner,  says  Old  King  Cole, 

And  the  tiger  banner,  he  cries. 

Pantagruel  breaks  into  a  laugh 

As  the  monarch  dries  his  eyes. — The  Search 

"  The  tiger  banyer,  that  is  what  you  call  much 
Bad  men  in  China,  Amelica.      The  dragon  banyer, 
That  is  storm,  leprosy,  no  rice,  what  you  call 
Nature.     See  !  Nature!  " — King  Joy 

*  *  *  *  * 

Said  Old  King  Cole  I  know  the  banner 
Of  dragon  and  tiger  too, 
But  I  would  know  the  vagrant  fellows 
Who  came  to  my  castle  with  you. 

***** 

And  I  would  know  why  they  rise  in  the  morning 

And  never  take  bread  or  scrip; 

And  why  they  hasten  over  the  mountain 

In  a  sorrowed  fellowship. 

***** 

Then  said  Pantagruel:  Heard  you  not? 
One  said  he  goes  to  Spain. 

[276] 


THE  END  OF  THE  SEARCH 

One  said  he  goes  to  Elsinore, 
And  one  to  the  Trojan  plain. 


Faith,  if  it  be,  said  Old  King  Cole, 
There  is  a  word  that's  more: 
Who  is  it  goes  to  Spain  and  Troy? 
And  who  to  Elsinore  ? 


One  may  be  Quixote,  said  Pantagruel, 
Out  for  the  final  joust. 
One  may  be  Hamlet,  said  Pantagruel 
And  one  I  think  is  Faust. 


Whoever  they  be,  said  Pantagruel, 
Why  stand  at  the  window  and  drool? 
Let's  out  and  catch  the  runaways 
While  the  morning  hour  is  cool. 

*  *  *  *  * 

Pantagruel  runs  to  the  castle  court, 
And  King  Cole  follows  soon. 
The  cobblestones  of  the  court  yard  ring 
To  the  beat  of  their  flying  shoon. 

*  *  *  *  * 

Pantagruel  clutches  the  holy  bottle, 
And  King  Cole  clutches  his  crown. 

[277] 


TOWARD  THE  GULF 

They  throw  the  bolt  of  the  castle  gate 
And  race  them  through  the  town. 


They  cross  the  river  and  follow  the  road, 
They  run  by  the  willow  trees, 
And  the  tiger  banner  and  dragon  banner 
Wait  for  the  morning  breeze. 

*  *  *  *  * 

They  clamber  the  wall  and  part  the  brambles, 
And  tear  through  thicket  and  thorn. 
And  a  wild  dove  in  an  olive  tree 
Does  mourn  and  mourn  and  mourn. 


A  green  snake  starts  in  the  tangled  grass, 
And  springs  his  length  at  their  feet. 
And  a  condor  circles  the  purple  sky 
Looking  for  carrion  meat. 

***** 

And  mad  black  flies  are  over  their  heads, 
And  a  wolf  looks  out  of  his  hole. 
Great  drops  of  sweat  break  out  and  run 
From  the  brow  of  Old  King  Cole. 

***** 

Said  Old  King  Cole:  A  drink,  my  friend, 
From  the  holy  bottle,  I  pray. 

[278] 


THE  END  OF  THE  SEARCH 

My  breath  is  "short,  my  feet  run  blood, 
My  throat  is  baked  as  clay. 


Anon  they  reach  a  mountain  top, 
And  a  mile  below  in  the  plain 
Are  the  glitter  of  guns  and  a  million  men 
Led  by  an  idiot  brain. 

***** 

They  come  to  a  field  of  slush  and  flaw 
Red  with  a  blood  red  dye. 
And  a  million  faces  fungus  pale 
Stare  horribly  at  the  sky. 

***** 

They  come  to  a  cross  where  a  rotting  thing 
Is  slipping  down  from  the  nails. 
And  a  raven  perched  on  the  eyeless  skull 
Opens  his  beak  and  rails: 

***** 

"If  thou  be  the  Son  of  man  come  down, 
Save  us  and  thyself  save." 
Pantagruel  flings  a  rock  at  the  raven: 
"How  now  blaspheming  knave !" 

***** 

"Come  down  and  of  my  bottle  drink, 
And  cease  this  scurvy  rune." 

[279] 


TOWARD  THE  GULF 

But  the  raven  flapped  its  wings  and  laughed 
Loud  as  the  water  loon. 


Said  Old  King  Cole:  A  drink,  my  friend, 
I  faint,  a  drink  in  haste. 
But  when  he  drinks  he  pales  and  mutters 
"The  wine  has  lost  its  taste." 

***** 

"You  have  gone  mad,"  said  Pantagruel, 
"In  faith  'tis  the  same  old  wine." 
Pantagruel  drinks  at  the  holy  bottle 
But  the  flavor  is  like  sea  brine. 


And  there  on  a  rock  is  a  cypress  tree, 
And  a  form  with  a  muffled  face. 
"I  know  you,  Death,"  said  Pantagruel, 
"  But  I  ask  of  you  no  grace." 

***** 

"Empty  my  bottle,  sour  my  wine, 
Bend  me,  you  shall  not  break." 
"Oh  well,"  said  Death,  "one  woe  at  a  time 
Before  I  come  and  take." 


"You  have  lost  everything  in  life  but  the  bottle, 
Youth  and  woman  and  friend. 
[280] 


THE  END  OF  THE  SEARCH 

Pass  on  and  laugh  for  a  little  space  yet 
The  laugh  that  has  an  end." 

***** 

Pantagruel  passes  and  looks  around  him 
Brave  and  merry  of  soul. 
But  there  on  the  ground  lies  a  dead  body, 
The  body  of  Old  King  Cole. 

***** 

And  a  Voice  said:  Take  the  body  up 
And  carry  the  body  for  me 
Until  you  come  to  a  silent  water, 
By  the  sands  of  a  silent  sea. 

***** 

Pantagruel  takes  the  body  up 

And  the  dead  fat  bends  him  down. 

He  climbs  the  mountains,  runs  the  valleys 

With  body,  bottle  and  crown. 

***** 

And  the  wastes  are  strewn  with  skulls, 
And  the  desert  is  hot  and  cursed. 
And  a  phantom  shape  of  the  holy  bottle 
Mocks  his  burning  thirst. 

***** 

Pantagruel  wanders  seven  days, 
And  seven  nights  wanders  he. 


TOWARD  THE  GULF 

And  on  the  seventh  night  he  rests  him 
By  the  sands  of  the  silent  sea. 


And  sees  a  new  made  fire  on  the  shore, 
And  on  the  fire  is  a  dish. 
And  by  the  fire  two  travelers  sleep, 
And  two  are  broiling  fish. 


Don  Quixote  and  Hamlet  are  sleeping, 
And  Faust  is  stirring  the  fire. 
But  the  fourth  is  a  stranger  with  a  face 
Starred  with  a  great  desire. 


Pantagruel  hungers,  Pantagruel  thirsts, 
Pantagruel  falls  to  his  knees. 
He  flings  down  the  body  of  Old  King  Cole 
As  a  man  throws  off  disease. 


And  rolls  his  burden  away  and  cries: 
"Take  and  watch,  if  you  will. 
But  as  for  me  I  go  to  France 
My  bottle  to  refill. 

*  *  *  * 

[282] 


THE  END  OF  THE  SEARCH 

"And  as  for  me  I  go  to  France 
To  fill  this  bottle  up." 
He  felt  at  his  side  for  the  holy  bottle, 
And  found  it  turned  a  cup. 

*  *  *  * 

And  the  stranger  said:  Behold  our  friend 
Has  brought  my  cup  to  me. 
That  is  the  cup  whereof  I  drank 
In  the  garden  Gethsemane. 


Pantagruel  hands  the  cup  to  Jesus 
Who  dips  it  in  sea  brine. 
This  is  the  water,  says  Jesus  of  Nazareth, 
Whereof  I  make  your  wine. 

***** 

And  Faust  takes  the  cup  from  Jesus  of  Nazareth, 

And  his  lips  wear  a  purple  stain. 

And  Faust  hands  the  cup  to  Pantagruel 

With  the  dregs  for  him  to  drain. 

***** 

Pantagruel  drinks  and  falls  into  slumber, 
And  Jesus  strokes  his  hair. 
And  Faust  sings  a  song  of  Euphorion 
To  hide  his  heart's  despair. 

***** 

[283] 


TOWARD  THE  GULF 

And  Faust  takes  the  hand  of  Jesus  of  Nazareth, 
And  they  walk  by  the  purple  deep. 
Says  Jesus  of  Nazareth:  "Some  are  watchers, 
And  some  grow  tired  and  sleep." 


284] 


BOTANICAL  GARDENS 

He  follows  me  no  more,  I  said,  nor  stands 
Beside  me.    And  I  wake  these  later  days 
In  an  April  mood,  a  wonder  light  and  free. 
The  vision  is  gone,  but  gone  the  constant  pain 
Of  constant  thought.    I  see  dawn  from  my  hill, 
And  watch  the  lights  which  fingers  from  the  waters 
Twine  from  the  sun  or  moon.    Or  look  across 
The  waste  of  bays  and  marshes  to  the  woods, 
Under  the  prism  colors  of  the  air, 
Held  in  a  vacuum  silence,  where  the  clouds, 
Like  cyclop  hoods  are  tossed  against  the  sky 
In  terrible  glory. 

And  earth  charmed  I  lie 
Before  the  staring  sphinx  whose  musing  face 
Is  this  Egyptian  heaven,  and  whose  eyes 
Are  separate  clouds  of  gold,  whose  pedestal 
Is  earth,  whose  silken  sheathed  claws 
No  longer  toy  with  me,  even  while  I  stroke  them: 
Since  I  have  ceased  to  tease  her. 

Then  behold 

A  breeze  is  blown  out  of  a  world  becalmed, 
And  as  I  see  the  multitudinous  leaves 

[285] 


TOWARD  THE  GULF 

Fluttered  against  the  water  and  the  light, 

And  see  this  light  unveil  itself,  reveal 

An  inner  light,  a  Presence,  Secret  splendor, 

I  clap  hands  over  eyes,  for  the  earth  reels; 

And  I  have  fears  of  dieties  shown  or  spun 

From  nothingness.    But  when  I  look  again 

The  earth  has  stayed  itself,  I  see  the  lake, 

The  leaves,  the  light  of  the  sun,  the  cyclop  hoods 

Of  thunder  heads,  yet  feel  upon  my  arm 

A  hand  I  know,  and  hear  a  voice  I  know — 

He  has  returned  and  brought  with  him  the  thought 

And  the  old  pain. 

The  voice  says:  "Leave  the  sphinx. 
The  garden  waits  your  study  fully  grown." 

And  I  arise  and  follow  down  a  slope 
To  a  lawn  by  the  lake  and  an  ancient  seat  of  stone, 
And  near  it  a  fountain's  shattered  rim  enclosing 
An  Eros  of  light  mood,  whose  sculptured  smile 
Consciously  dimples  for  the  unveiled  pistil  of  love, 
As  he  strokes  with  baby  hand  the  slender  arching 
Neck  of  a  swan.    And  here  is  a  peristyle 
Whose  carven  columns  are  pink  as  the  long  updrawn 
Stalks  of  tulips  bedded  in  April  snow. 
And  sunk  amid  tiger  lillies  is  the  face 
Of  an  Asian  Aphrodite  close  to  the  seat 
With  feet  of  a  Babylonian  lion  amid 
[286! 


BOTANICAL  GARDENS 

This  ruined  garden  of  yellow  daisies,  poppies 
And  ruddy  asphodel  from  Crete,  it  seems, 
Though  here  is  our  western  moon  as  white  and  thin 
As  an  abalone  shell  hung  under  the  boughs 
Of  an  oak,  that  is  mocked  by  the  vastness  of  sky  be 
tween 

His  boughs  and  the  moon  in  this  sky  of  afternoon.  .  .  . 
We  walk  to  the  water's  edge  and  here  he  shows  me 
Green  scum,  or  stalks,  or  sedges,  grasses,  shrubs, 
That  yield  to  trees  beyond  the  levels,  where 
The  beech  and  oak  have  triumph;  for  along 
This  gradual  growth  from  algae,  reeds  and  grasses, 
That  builds  the  soil  against  the  water's  hands, 
All  things  are  fierce  for  place  and  garner  life 
From  weaker  things. 

And  then  he  shows  me  root  stocks, 
And  Alpine  willow,  growths  that  sneak  and  crawl 
Beneath  the  soil.    Or  as  we  leave  the  lake 
And  walk  the  forest  I  behold  lianas, 
Smilax  or  woodbine  climbing  round  the  trunks 
Of  giant  trees  that  live  and  out  of  earth, 
And  out  of  air  make  strength  and  food  and  ask 
No  other  help.    And  in  this  place  I  see 
Spiral  bryony,  python  of  the  vines 
That  coils  and  crushes;  and  that  banyan  tree 
Whose  spreading  branches  drop  new  roots  to  earth, 
And  lives  afar  from  where  the  parent  trunk 

[287] 


TOWARD  THE  GULF 

Has  sunk  its  roots,  so  that  the  healthful  sun 

Is  darkened:  as  a  people  might  be  darkened 

By  ignorance  or  want  or  tyranny, 

Or  dogma  of  a  jungle  hidden  faith. 

Why  is  it,  think  I,  though  I  dare  not  speak, 

That  this  should  be  to  forests  or  to  men; 

That  water  fails,  and  light  decreases,  heat 

Of  God's  air  lessens,  and  the  soil  goes  spent, 

Till  plants  change  leaves  and  stalks  and  seeds  as  well, 

Or  migrate  from  the  olden  places,  go 

In  search  of  life,  or  if  they  cannot  move 

Die  in  the  ruthless  marches. 

That  is  life,  he  said. 
For  even  these,  the  giants  scatter  life 
Into  the  maws  of  death.    That  towering  tree 
That  for  these  hundred  years  has  leafed  itself, 
And  through  its  leaves  out  of  the  magic  air 
Drawn  nutriment  for  annual  girths,  took  root 
Out  of  an  acorn  which  good  chance  preserved, 
While  all  its  brother  acorns  cast  to  earth, 
To  make  trees,  by  a  parent  tree  now  gone, 
Were  crushed,  devoured,  or  strangled  as  they  sprouted 
Amid  thick  jealous  growth  wherein  they  fell. 
All  acorns  but  this  one  were  lost. 

Then  he  reads 

My  questioning  thought  and  shows  me  yuccas,  cactus 
Whose  thick  leaves  in  the  rainless  places  thrive. 

[288] 


BOTANICAL  GARDENS 

And  shows  me  leaves  that  must  have  rain,  and  roots 

That  must  have  water  where  the  river  flows. 

And  how  the  spirit  of  life,  though  turned  or  driven 

This  way  or  that  beyond  a  course  begun, 

Cannot  be  stayed  or  quenched,  but  moves,  conforms 

To  soil  and  sun,  makes  roots,  or  thickens  leaves, 

Or  thins  or  re-adjusts  them  on  the  stem 

To  fashion  forth  itself,  produce  its  kind. 

Nor  dies  not,  rests  not,  nor  surrenders  not, 

Is  only  changed  or  buried,  re-appears 

As  other  forms  of  life. 

We  had  walked  through 
A  forest  of  sequoias,  beeches,  pines, 
And  ancient  oaks  where  I  could  see  the  trace 
Of  willows,  alders,  ruined  or  devoured 
By  the  great  Titans. 

At  last 

We  reached  my  hill  and  sat  and  overlooked 
The  garden  at  our  feet,  even  to  the  place 
Of  tiger  lilies   and  of  asphodel, 
By  now  beneath  the  self-same  moon,  grown  denser: 
As  where  the  wounded  surface  of  the  shell 
Thickens  its  shimmering  stuff  in  spiral  coigns 
Of  the  shell,  so  was  the  moon  above  the  seat 
Beside  the  Eros  and  the  Aphrodite 
Sunk  amid  yellow  daisies  and  deep  grass. 
[289] 


TOWARD  THE  GULF 

And  here  we  sat  and  looked.    And  here  my  vision 

Was  over  all  we  saw,  but  not  a  part 

Of  what  we  saw,  for  all  we  saw  stood  forth 

As  foreign  to  myself  as  something  touched 

To  learn  the  thing  it  is. 

I  might  have  asked 

Who  owns  this  garden,  for  the  thought  arose 
With  my  surprise,  who  owns  this  garden,  who 
Planted  this  garden,  why  and  to  what  end, 
And  why  this  fight  for  place,  for  soil  and  sun 
Water  and  air,  and  why  this  enmity 
Between  the  things  here  planted,  and  between 
Flying  or  crawling  life  and  plants,  and  whence 
The  power  that  falls  in  one  place  but  arises 
Some  other  place;  and  why  the  unceasing  growth 
Of  all  these  forms  that  only  come  to  seed, 
Then  disappear  to  enrich  the  insatiate  soil 
Where  the  new  seed  falls \/  But  silence  kept  me  there 
For  wonder  of  the  beauty  which  I  saw, 
Even  while  the  faculty  of  external  vision 
Kept  clear  the  garden  separate  from  me, 
Envisioned,  seen  as  grasses,  sedges,  alders, 
As  forestry,  as  fields  of  wheat  and  corn, 
As  the  vast  theatre  of  unceasing  life, 
Moving  to  life  and  blind  to  all  but  life; 
As  places  used,  tried  out,  as  if  the  gardener, 
For  his  delight  or  use,  or  for  an  end 

[290] 


BOTANICAL  GARDENS 

Of  good  or  beauty  made  experiments 

With  seed  or  soils  or  crossings  of  the  seed. 

Even  as  peoples,  epochs,  did  the  garden 

Lie  to  my  vision,  or  as  races  crowding, 

Absorbing,  dispossessing,  killing  races, 

Not  only  for  a  place  to  grow,  but  under 

A  stimulus  of  doctrine:  as  Mahomet, 

Or  Jesus,  like  a  vital  change  of  air, 

Or  artifice  of  culture,  made  the  garden, 

Which  mortals  call  the  world,  grow  in  a  way, 

And  overgrow  the  world  as  neither  dreamed. 

Who  is  the  Gardener  then  ?    Or  is  there  one 

Beside  the  life  within  the  plant,  within 

The  python  climbers,  wandering  sedges,  root  stalks, 

Thorn  bushes,  night-shade,  deadly  saprophytes, 

Goths,  Vandals,  Tartars,  striving  for  more  life, 

And  praying  to  the  urge  within  as  God, 

The  Gardener  who  lays  out  the  garden,  sprays 

For  insects  which  devour,  keeps  rich  the  soil 

For  those  who  pray  and  know  the  Gardener 

As  One  who  is  without  and  over-sees  ?  .  .  . 

But  while  in  contemplation  of  the  garden, 
Whether  from  failing  day  or  from  departure 
Of  my  own  vision  in  the  things  it  saw, 
Bereft  of  penetrating  thought  I  sank, 
Became  a  part  of  what  I  saw  and  lost 
The  great  solution. 

[291] 


TOWARD  THE  GULF 

As  we  sat  in  silence, 

And  coming  night,  what  seemed  the  sinking  moon, 
Amid  the  yellow  sedges  by  the  lake 
Began  to  twinkle,  as  a  fire  were  blown — 
And  it  was  fire,  the  garden  was  afire, 
As  it  were  all  the  world  had  flamed  with  war. 
And  a  wind  came  out  of  the  bright  heaven 
And  blew  the  flames,  first  through  the  ruined  garden, 
Then  through  the  wood,  the  fields  of  wheat,  at  last 
Nothing  was  left  but  waste  and  wreaths  of  smoke 
Twisting  toward  the  stars.    And  there  he  sat 
Nor  uttered  aught,  save  when  I  sighed  he  said 
"If  it  be  comforting  I  promise  you 
Another  spring  shall  come." 

"And  after  that?" 

"Another  spring — that's  all  I  know  myself, 
There  shall  be  springs  and  springs!" 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


[292 


'HE  following  pages   contain   advertisements  of 
Macmillan  books  by  the  same  author. 


Spoon  River  Anthology 


BY  EDGAR  LEE  MASTERS 

New  edition  with  new  poems. 
With  illustrations  and  decorations  by  OLIVER  HERFORD 

Leather,  $2.50  Cloth,  $2.00 

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"A  wonderfully  vivid  series  of  transcripts  from  real  life." —  Current 
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Angeles  Graphic. 

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of  view  of  originality  ...  the  work  is  striking."  —  Springfield 
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"  It  is  a  book  which,  whether  one  likes  it  or  not,  one  must  respect." 

—  New  Republic. 

"  The  natural  child  of  Walt  Whitman  ...  the  only  poet  with 
true  Americanism  in  his  bones."  — John  Cowper  Poivys  in  New  York 
Times. 


THE    MACMILLAN    COMPANY 

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The  Great  Valley 

BY  EDGAR  LEE  MASTERS 


Cloth,  $1.50  Leather,  $1.75 

This  book  by  the  author  of  "  Spoon  River 
Anthology  "  represents  Mr.  Masters's  very  latest 
work,  and  while  it  employs  the  style  and  method 
of  its  now  famous  predecessor  it  marks  an  ad 
vance  over  that  both  in  treatment  and  thought. 
Here  Mr.  Masters  is  interpreting  the  country 
and  the  age.  Many  problems  are  touched  upon 
with  typical  Masters  incisiveness.  Many  char 
acters  are  introduced,  each  set  off  with  that 
penetrative  insight  into  human  nature  that  so 
distinguished  the  Anthology.  The  result  is  an 
epic  of  American  life,  a  worthy  successor  to 
Mr.  Masters's  first  volume. 


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"There  is  an  inescapable  beauty  in  their  quality  of  uncompromis 
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sonality,  but  also  the  haunting  revelation  of  feeling  which  poetry 
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Mr.  Masters  does  not  lack  mastery." — Argonaut. 

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"A  true  poet  and  a  true  observer  of  life.    Every  line  is  beautiful." 

—N.  Y.  Times. 

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romantic,  and  ...  his  interpretations  are  highly  true  to  life." 

— Congregationalist  (Boston). 

"Places  him  in  the  unique  position  of  having  a  special  message 
and  a  singularly  compelling  method  of  embodying  it  among  Ameri 
can  poets  of  to-day." — Boston  Transcript. 


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